No Leaf Clover
by LovelyAche
Summary: What if Cato and Clove are the two last tributes left standing on the Cornucopia? Can the Capitol spin the games their way, or will Cato and Clove usher in a new set of rules? What happens when plots we manufacture are torn from our grip and we are forced to play by other people's rules? Eventual Clato.
1. Chapter 1

Though the air was warm, a gentle breeze tugged at the trees and made the leaves sway gently back and forth. The sky had long since grown dark over the arena.

Had the occasion been any other, Cato would have described the night as quite peaceful. The situation being as it was, however, it was far from it. His eyes warily scanned the distance below him, his legs dangled over the edge of the cornucopia just out of the reach of the ever pursuant muttations. He pulled his eyes off of the blackness below and examined his legs.

Had he been a normal teenager and the sight alone would have made him shudder, not to mention the considerable pain. The left leg was badly mangled; strips of flesh hung down from it in ragged lines, exposing the slashed muscles beneath.

"Fuck! Damn, that was close." Cato muttered to no one in particular. The right was not much better. He caught his breath and forced himself to scoot backward to rest his back against the metal plate of the cornucopia. The movement smeared a trail of blood behind him, and he thought, not for the first time that day, that he might be far worse than he even suspected.

He pushed thoughts of his own mortality from his mind, for now; at least his lungs and heart still functioned. He forced himself to focus on the sound of his beating heart, the blood rushing in and out. He stilled his breathing, consciously feeling the air rush into his lungs cooling him, and then slowly expelled it out.

Better, he thought.

"I didn't hear you complaining, earlier." Cato raised his eyes, warily taking in his dark haired companion. Even though her form stood up at a couple feet above him, Clove's dark hair and softly flickering eyes lent her an appearance of gentleness, one which was quickly dismissed away when he took notice of her current actions.

She was weighing the handle of her knife at present. The similarities between them struck his mind... Both were petite, yet precision built for killing. Both had been fine tuned for one purpose and one purpose only... killing.

He smiled inwardly as she frowned. The knife though well weighted, did not in fact, impress her.

"What's wrong now?" her mock-gentle tone seemed almost endearing to which Cato raised one eyebrow, but refused to lift his head.

In a half hearted attempt at pretending to ignore it, Cato fiddled with the blunt edge of his blade, drawing it out with the tip of a finger.

"I didn't complain—it doesn't really matter." The fact that she'd managed to touch his emotions at such a time greatly annoyed him and he quickly added, "Just shut up." He busied himself watching as a shadow moved from under the hood of the cornucopia. He wasn't sure how they hadn't managed to climb up the structure yet, but for now, he – they are safe.

With her knife resting idly on her chest, her eyes danced in the night glow.

He was considering heavily whether he should trust her with the weapon or not when she retorted half sarcastically, half tauntingly. "Why? Am I annoying, almightily, bloodthirsty Cato? Aww, come on Cato. You know I would never do that." Equal parts sarcasm and mirth intermingled in her tone.

He seethed not only at the jest made at his expense, but also at the sound of her voice. Yes, soon she would learn to keep that pretty little mouth closed, he thought.

His body protested and creaked as he turned his stiff form. He moved a pace away from her and stretched his previously crouched form, he turned away from the brunette career as he replied. "What can I say—" his jaw clenched, teeth gritting together. "You always read me just so well." Acid sarcasm coated his words and Clove didn't bother replying.

They both knew it was pointless, but the semi-considerate gesture still surprised her. She studied his tense form as he scanned the darkness watching for any sign of the advance of the muttations.

Though he was badly injured, practically slumping down on a pool of his own blood, he was taught with nervous energy, the kind that could only be the result of a sincere fear for one's own life. Despite the fact that no danger was currently posed to them, he still gripped his sword in his right hand. After he had satisfied himself that there was no change in the position of their pursuers below, he looked back at his companion, he was unnerved to see her looking at him as well.

He did not appreciate the hungry, haughty, almost mocking light he saw dancing in her eyes when they locked. In an attempt to assert his dominance despite his injury he waved a hand toward her dismissively and angrily ordered her to move over.

"Whatever you say, Cato," replied Clove snidely. However, she remained in her place for just long enough to subtly assert the fact that she would move wherever she damn well wanted, whenever she damn well wanted. He was NOT in charge of her. To further emphasize her point she turned on her heels, just about sloshing through his blood with her every step and went back to where she'd been resting.

As if to dismiss him entirely, she never even bothered to look back, though she was almost certain he was watching her every move. Exactly as she wanted it, she smiled inwardly. She sat watching over the arena and bided her time making sure that the many blades sticking out of her belt and coat were as razor sharp, as usual.

Probably. Cato wasn't paying close enough attention to tell for sure.

Cato turned his thoughts over inwardly. There was no thankfulness in admitting that she didn't seem to be in such bad condition, battered and bruised, probably broken, though clearly in far better condition than his current state. Cato dismissed her from his mind as quickly as the thought had entered it, as he pulled his legs closer to his body to inspect them.

Several deep gashes made their way up and down his flesh, slashes crossed down the meaty side of his thigh, which gushed red at every movement, and he was sure they would have stung like a bitch if he were actually able to feel any pain. Luckily for him, Cato was in a state of near mindlessness and although he knew he ought to be in agony, he simply wasn't.

He didn't wince at every tiny movement or even flinch when he realized with almost surity that he could see his femur bone under all the jagged flesh and heavy bleeding. Although, it was not a good sign, there was nothing he could do at the moment. Instead, Cato leaned back, pressing one elbow behind him against the metal plates, he forced himself to ignore how his ears rung against the back of his skull.

He again stopped his movement and forced himself to focus on his breathing once more. Still, he did not catch himself quickly enough to hide the grimace the movement brought to his face.

"What now?" Clove hissed again, breaking the relatively fresh silence with her disdain.

He had not noticed that Clove had finished sharpening her knives, and chided himself inwardly at giving her the satisfaction of having seen him wince. He closed his eyes briefly to still his voice, but he hoped that it came across as an attempt at muffling his annoyance with her. When he looked up, he began to take in her state more closely for the first time that evening.

One of her arms swung lifelessly by her side and he was relatively sure the bone had either shattered, or that the muscle itself was badly shredded. It was impossible to discern what further injuries the waterproof coat she wore might be hiding. He was certain that the truth of the extent of her injuries was far more than she'd ever let on. Not that he sincerely cared, or wanted to know, not with his own physical state as it was, and the fact that there were far more pressing matters to consider.

Thus far there had been no further announcement by the Game makers, which there certainly should have been by now... or that he could still hear the rustle of the beasts not far below.

"Figured they would have done something sooner," he ventured idly. Not so much for sincere interest, he should have questioned this before, but more for the sake of an attempt at taking both their minds off of their current state. Though he was far too tired, bruised and drained from loss of blood and lack of sleep, to sincerely make an effort at conversation.

They had spent nearly a week running and hunting across the arena for other tributes, so the extra time waiting didn't actually pain him, it was just one more in a long and rapidly growing list of annoyances.

She merely nodded absent mindedly in reply as she curled her legs under her and rested her back against the wall behind her.

"So now we wait..." he continued, whilst also pulling his legs closer towards him, suppressing another grimace with a thin guise of frustration. She didn't even nod, and he was too far beyond exhausted to even care.

They were the two last survivors of the Hunger Games as per the recent rule change. He'd been quite ready to push his sword on Clove's chest after both Firegirl and Loverboy died. They had been the ones for which the rules had been bent and well, Cato was starting to feel like being pretty damn sure that they should have been announced victors already was stupid of him. He had never considered himself to be gullible, but the thought of having this last victorious moment snatched right from under his hands did not even cross his mind.

There was silence, neither of them willing to speak up, until a canon-like sound boomed overhead, and Cato briefly glanced towards Clove, watching her expression shift as the Game makers finally announced their latest rule change.

"**Greetings to our current victors! After careful consideration we have decided to rescind our previous rule change. As per the original rules, there may now only be one victor for the 74****th**** Hunger Games. May the odds be ever in your favour and good luck!"**

The air left his lungs in a rush, and the only thought that came to mind despite his confusion was, "What?" He shook himself back to clarity and found himself already upright; all of his muscles tense, called to attention from a lifetime of training no longer required his conscious order to call them to action. Surely, he had given them no such conscious order... yet here he stood.

His sword poised uneasily atop his shoulder, he stared Clove in the eyes. Cato considered that he should have seen this coming all along, and, although his mind could only scream that changing the rules of the games this often was practically, if not completely unheard of, he pushed these thoughts from his mind for once and for all.

She watched Cato warily as she too, was at full attention ... though he could not read the expression in her eyes he caught the glint of light that danced off of one of her knives which had found its way into her able grip. Even the air which had previously been keeping up a slight but welcome breeze had become still... tense... waiting...

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A/N: And that's it... I am joking. I have the next chapter quite ready, but would like to know if anyone is interested in reading onward. =) Please review if possible! Any and all comments will be loved dearly!


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you all for your kind reviews. Please keep them coming!**

**I have a fair idea of where this is going but would love to see other's opinions on the story. Thus far, all I can say is that although things might not be so difficult for either Cato or Clove, they won't be EASY at all. **

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"Only one victor, uh." Clove muttered, more to feel his mood than having been sincerely interested in his answer.

"Yeah," Cato nodded, figuring there wasn't much to be said any longer. At least, nothing he could have willed himself to say aloud.

Without further ado she began to edge forward even while she spoke, "Well, let's take care of that, shall we?"

Cato instinctively knew, having trained alongside her one too many times - for years - that she was holding back. What he didn't know for sure was whether or not this was a ploy for him to drop his guard, to catch him unprepared and backstab him, or if she was actually as apprehensive as her voice had betrayed. She had never been good at poker and she still wasn't.

He met her grin with one of his own as the two began a dance their bodies and minds knew far too well.

Before he'd had time to come up with a way to reply to the looming death threat, Clove continued. She lunged towards him with her knife slashing at his side. "This is almost so fucking funny. Want to die? Do you? Because I am sure you'll have a grand time, on the other side." And she took one step closer to where he'd slid down to one knee to avoid her previous movement.

If these weren't two trained killers, then Cato might have almost looked helpless, with his bloody clothes and an awfully ragged expression plastered on his face.

"No, I don't, Clove." Eyes narrowed into a tiny blue slit, Cato forced himself to draw out her name, pronouncing every letter very clearly despite the lump that threatened to burst free from within his throat. "You knew that already. But come on, you're welcome to try." Cato knew that his mildly scornful, cocky tone wouldn't be the thing stopping Clove, and as such he raised his sword further up in the air at the same time he scrambled backward, kneeling up against one of the raised sides of the cornucopia.

"What the hell?" she laughed, and there wasn't an ounce of bitterness in it, the sound was just as sweet and provocative as Cato's. But the male career was nearly two times Clove's size and that alone was enough to cause her to hesitate. "I don't-"

It only took a moment.

Cato flung himself forward - finding strength where he thought there was none left – and shoved one hand towards the girl's throat, successfully pressing her down against the cold metal surface of the cornucopia while the other pushed the edge of his sword forward onto her clothed breast.

He did notice that her knife had dug its way through his shoulder and been twisted firmly in place, but chose to ignore the very slight ache and focus on keeping her down, instead. He was severely wounded and knew that the blood loss alone might cause him to collapse at any moment, but he still didn't budge.

Although it took a long, painstaking moment, Cato shoved his legs around Clove's waist and all but sat down on top of her, not caring how his weight might affect her. Not after she had just attempted to kill him. Of course. He would've thought it strangely out of character if she hadn't done so.

They were district partners and had plotted together for a while already, but this was the end of it now. And well, she would've been stupid not to take the opportunity, he thought, as he glared down at her face.

"What the- Cato!" She shrieked, arms flailing helplessly as the words only caused the male career to grip her windpipe tighter in between his fingers. "I can't-" Yes, breathe. Cato was aware of that, but he didn't let go.

He watched her eyes intently as her flailing movements intensified and her gasping became ever quieter with every passing second. It was only when he could almost see the light going out of her eyes as they rolled back in their sockets against Clove's skull, that Cato moved his hand away, slapping it roughly down on the plate beside her head. It was cold and sticky.

He waited for Clove to regain her breath, which she did, arching and heaving and trying to unsuccessfully cling to some part of his chest or clothes. Cato didn't move to bat the hands away, but after a couple minutes, they stopped moving and the only reason for him to know she was still alive was the way her breath still came in short choking gasps and little huffs pushed against his chest.

"Let me..." Clove panted out. She was tired and with Cato's full two hundred plus pounds resting squarely on her chest cavity she was frightfully weighted down, the compression slowly smothering her and making it difficult to speak at all. "Let me go, or... coward!"

He didn't bother replying to the insult. Instead, Cato responded by staring coldly down at her, locking her gaze with his own. His face was as expressionless as the cold steel beneath them.

The full weight of both his frame and his gaze rested on her for several minutes longer before he replied icily, "Coward? Bull. You thought I wouldn't attack you? You really did? Well, fuck you Clove. Who's the one with the upper hand now?" Cato couldn't stop himself from gloating, unthinkingly at how the tables had been turned.

As he waited for a reply, he found himself drawing a large C-like shape on the girl's chest with the tip of his sword, neatly cutting through her clothes and drawing a few beads of blood.

"Fuck!" She said, hissing, her voice not hiding her panicky state, her fingers trying to scramble against his arms and failing to hold on, or halt him. "Stop that—stop it!" The higher pitched cries awoke something inside of him and a single shiver ran up his spine. Though, it still wasn't enough to make him stop.

Before Cato realized what he was actually doing, there was more and more blood flowing through her jacket, he looked down to see that he had carved her whole name onto her skin. It probably hurt, he thought absent mindedly, more out of amusement than concern.

"Cato!" Clove moaned in a more than slightly pleading tone, using her good arm to blindly press down on the wound.

Cato could probably pierce through her palm and make her suffer further, but he didn't. After a moment, he drew the blade away and placed it down beside him on the metal walk.

It was strange that he hadn't thought about it before, but while the girl writhed in pain beneath him, Cato took his time to feel through her clothes and drew as many knifes and other small blades from them as he could find, quickly tossing them away from her prone form.

His voice had barely risen above a whisper, yet his words stabbed her as surely as any one of her knives now discarded below them could have.

His face was frozen in a disdainful sneer, "And I am the coward? I could easily kill you right now. Could make a show out of it, make them happy. I'd throw your remains-" He paused, breathing harder and felt the metallic pang of blood flood his mouth. Well, that sucked. "To them. Am sure they'd love it." Craning his head to the side, Cato idly motioned towards where the pack of beasts still circled below, their stout, massive forms pacing to and fro, just out of reach on the ground.

If Cato had intended to induce Clove to beg or plead, she would not give him the satisfaction. Instead, she steeled her expression once more and growled through gritted teeth, "Ugh. You're such a damn asshole. What are you going to do? Just go ahead, kill me? Go on. Jerk." She continued before he had the time to speak up. "I... I don't think you are going to kill me right now. Are you? God, you're stupid Cato." Clove's eyebrow rose up against her forehead and she shot Cato one look that nearly had him moving his hand back over her throat, before he stopped himself.

Only when Clove relaxed did Cato talk again. His voice was particularly devoid of emotion, which, given the way his mind had started to fog over, was not too surprising.

"No."

"What the fuck are you talking about? You fucking bastard-" If she was trying to work him up, trying to get him off the edge and cause him to snap and provide her with a quick, painless, nearly kind death, it would not work, he thought.

He fixed his gaze once more on her eyes, internally weighing her intentions; he chased these thoughts round his mind until he had finally assured himself of all of this. Still despite the fact that he knew that this was as close to begging for mercy as she would ever come, he couldn't decide just what to do with this realization.

Part of him wanted to acquiesce to her wishes and his muscles tensed, itching to follow what they had been trained to do for so many years. He sat a notch away from disobeying the part of his mind which was still coherent enough to be somewhat logical. He didn't want to die, and despite her words, he was sure Clove didn't either.

The funny part was how he had been counting on them both leaving the arena alive, now that the sliver of hope had been shattered, Cato's security faltered.

"Maybe if we stay here," he spoke up, ramming his palm on top of Clove's, pressing down against her ribs. "Who the fuck knows, they might get bored,"

No. He knew that wasn't going to happen any time soon, not while the viewers watching their live feed were still entertained by the show. There were cameras all around them and he knew that whatever the Gamemakers had in mind, it wouldn't be pretty for either of them.

"Okay, and what is the greatest, mightiest Cato going to do about it? You have just about thrown every fucking one of my knives down there." Clove wasn't sure why she had admitted that, and although it was technically a lie, given that there was still one small knife stuffed inside her boot, it's not like she was in any sort of position to reach it, at this point.

Not when one of her arms was broken, and she was still pinned down by the oppressive and relentless weight of Cato's frame.

"Smartass... I'm defenseless, good for you." She hissed again and Cato was quite sure it was supposed to be an offensive remark, but he nearly took it as a compliment.

"Just..." There was no way that Clove would have begged, probably not even if had attempted to make her do so, but she still whined, pressing her mouth together into a very fine line. "Get it over with, will you?"

"Nope," Cato replied firmly.

"Cato." This time there was a sort of fierce, definite certainty to her tone. It sounded like defeat and it just about surprised him, the way she scoffed his name while not quite bothering to glance at where he knelt above her.

This was a side of Clove that Cato didn't think he had seen before. She sounded nearly subdued. Maybe it was the fact that one of them would have to die and in light of her current position the answer was obvious as to whom exactly that would be. Or perhaps it was a fear that he would draw out the inevitable, create the best "show" possible, and brag before ending it all for her in bloody glory. He didn't know for sure, but whatever strange emotion it was, it caused him to hesitate, instead of driving him to move faster.

"I don't think you'd like me to just snap your neck. What was it? Like I did to that guy. Which district was he from?" Cato should remember, but he didn't, nor did he bother to concern himself with worrying over the fuzzy half memory.

Clove muttered under her breath and Cato was pretty sure she had not intended for him to have heard it. "Three."

"Yes, three." It was strange how he had never even considered asking anything about the guy nor did he bat an eyelid when 'three' died, at his hands. But these were the Hunger Games, survival was survival and the idea that he might've acted in a needlessly brutal matter didn't quite make it the whole way across his mind.

"So do come on." Cato tensed when Clove's eyes rolled pointedly at him. "What the fuck are you going on about? Are you going to wait until they decide that these stupid dogs aren't good enough and decide to...I don't even know...send some flying shit at us?"

"I am pretty sure they can't make flying muttations." A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his eyes before it was replaced with a ghost of terror... was it possible? Surely they couldn't really do that... could they? It was a silly comment but it sparked the deep rooted fear inside of his mind, caused him to snap his eyes from where they'd been fixed on a bloody spot by Clove's cheek and instinctively sweep the area around them with his gaze, searching for some new danger.

"Are you even listening to me?" There was no point in snapping and Clove's voice was awfully tight, but she did so anyway, struggling against Cato's grasp once again, and once again found that he would not yield even the slightest bit at all.

Her squirming brought his focus sharply back to the present, his brief tension quickly transformed once again into rage "Not yet!" he growled as he gripped her even more tightly.

Then as quickly as it had reignited, the fury left him. He released all of the breath he had been holding and his muscles relaxed.

Seemingly without cause, he shifted his weight onto one side and eased an elbow from under him, flinging his sword over the side of the metal frame. The clatter of the steel hitting the ground below was a distant clamor, yet it rang in the air for several minutes afterward. It was the loudest noise that had been made in what seemed like hours.

"Yeah, that. I stand by my word." She pointed out and raised her hand.

Cato didn't need to look down to realize just how incredibly reckless he had been, because he was sure that the object she was gripping so tightly between her fingers was yet another knife, a slim blade that Cato must've missed. His shoulder ached and he glared down at it, looking at the bloodied patch of skin which had been pierced by her blade, minutes earlier.

It shouldn't be possible, but somehow, the girl had managed to pull it out without him paying too much attention. Fuck. He had been foiled and he thought it wasn't so clear who held the upper hand any longer, not with him bleeding so heavily and with her armed but still only just scrapping by.

Cato was hard pressed to come up with a lie, and these words could possibly decide between his future as a Victor and his untimely death. However, he didn't hesitate.

"I- I can't," he provided, mildly. "I can't kill you. Happy? Fucking happy? Because you sure ought to be." And having finished that thought and resigned himself to whatever might transpire next, he slid further back. Straddling her hips, he left her arms and torso completely free of obstruction, but her legs still pinned to the cold metal walk.

He raised his left hand, palm outstretched into the space between them as if to shield himself from yet another attack of her knife. He knew if Clove decided to throw it at him, his hand would offer him nothing more than a thin guise of protection but the gesture's intent was still there.

The picture was surely comical to those watching, and if he had not already bared himself to her just moments before, he surely would have been appalled at his own vulnerable appearance.

He did not have the luxury of pride any longer, though neither did she. His eyes no longer looked up to meet hers challengingly. In fact he had not glanced up at her face once since he had felt her knife rip through his shoulder once more.

She felt him flinch as if startled by the sound of his own voice, when he spoke.

"I'm—" he began, but was quickly interrupted.

A loud crackle of thunder boomed through the air as a spider web of lightning flashed through the sky above them glinting over the metal around them.

The sound cut Cato's words short and, for a very brief second, fully showed the countless beasts which still growled and snapped at them from down below in the arena. Cato could see clearly from their vantage point, the place where Firegirl and Loverboy's bodies had been dragged by the hovercraft.

He could also clearly distinguish the many flecks of red spread throughout the field where their corpses had been dragged through the overgrowth. Flesh, bone and sinew, he could imagine, torn apart by the muttation's devastating jaws.

Even as the lightning blinked above them, he saw them. Their eyes. The terrifyingly familiar eyes of all the tributes that had already fallen, some of them by Cato's hand, some of them by others, or natural causes. They growled and snapped at each other and howled, oddly, at both Cato and Clove. Almost as if they were trying to tell them something.

Cato dismissed this idea for its sheer ridiculousness. He quickly slid his weight off of her and stood in one fluid motion while still watching the beasts below with seeming rapt attention. Clove was not nearly as quick on her feet as he had been. She lay for a moment catching her first free breath, then pushed herself up from the now quite bloody metal flooring as he turned to face her once more.

"What now?" she queried.

There was something he meant to convey and he hoped Clove was sharp enough to catch it without words, because he was still in a position to kill her, and although the opposite was probably true as well, he didn't give it much thought.

"Like I was saying, I'm ready. Let's play." Cato inched forward, roughly taking a hold of Clove's shoulder, not waiting to see if she was intent upon using that blade of hers to stab him again, and simply moved out of her range.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Sooo there you have it, the third chapter! Interested to know what happens to Cato and Clove next? Want to tell me what you think of this story? Well then! Leave me a review if you feel up to it, I really look forward to hearing what people think.**

**More of the story has been written it just needs to be edited. I'll update soon!**

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His mind began to hatch a plan, and although he was not yet sure of its efficacy, it was either this or perish from blood loss, which he certainly did not consider a viable option. No, that would not do at all. It would be an incredibly stupid death for a capable career like himself.

"What the hell?" Clove's eyes widened as she noticed the movement, and Cato saw the blade move from the corner of his eye. He braced for the impalement and subsequent pain he was sure would follow at any moment, but it did not deter his plans in the least.

Before she could react any further, his lips were on her. He probably shouldn't have been enjoying this, considering how it was a hopefully necessary albeit completely fake move, one that might guarantee that he got to live to see another day, but his eyes fluttered shut after a second and Cato almost forgot where he was.

It wasn't tentative and it certainly wasn't hopeful. Cato crashed their mouths together and forced her head to tilt, squeezing her jaw so that he could simply thrust his tongue inside her mouth and brush against whatever part of her throat he could reach. Her mouth was warm and pleasantly smooth and after a moment, Cato nearly expected her to relax. But she didn't, of course not, and fought him the whole way until they were pressed against each other, chests firmly, bleeding together and heaving harshly up and down.

He realized after a moment that it was highly possible that this, his actions, had had the opposite effect than he had originally intended. He pushed those thoughts from his mind, and given the nearly dazed state he was in it was a remarkably easy task to accomplish.

He shot her a sly mischievous grin as he pulled away, catching her eye.

"Fuck, what the fuck?" Clove snapped after a moment, teeth bared, eyes wild, almost like the beasts trying to get to them, which was, of course, completely expected.

And as she tried to reach out to him and to make him pay for whatever had just happened, Cato sighed. He sat down once more on the metal floor, thankfully a few paces from the bloody patch they had previously occupied. He reached up to her with an open hand and pulled her to sit beside him.

"Shut up." Breathlessly, he reached out to cup her cheek and moved to pull her body close to his, to lie beside her body, draping one arm heavily over Clove's shoulders, though he was careful not to restrain her.

There was a pool of blood spreading beside them from their fresh injuries, but Cato didn't bother with thinking about how fast they might die if nothing happened any time soon.

He already knew that, he could feel it, the way his muscles weighed him down and moving them took far more energy and concerted effort than it should. He also found it more and more difficult to push the haze from his mind long enough to form coherent thought, much less well reasoned actions. Or maybe it was simply a convenient excuse for the half-assed kiss. Cato was glad for the defense nonetheless.

"Like they are going to-" Clove began to chide, but she was quieted with a whispered "Shhhh."

Although the idea was clear to her, to imitate the little stunt pulled by the Loverboy and Fireboy, both of whom were now dead, and had been shredded to pieces by the creatures awaiting them below, it still made no sense whatsoever. Although she couldn't quite show Cato what she meant from the position she was in, she glared up at him, eyebrows knitted together in her forehead. Because there was no way in hell that they could ever mimic any sort of warmness, or get the audience to believe that they actually cared about each other.

"I said shut up, okay?" His tone was less that of an order rather it had a distinct pleading to it. At this rate, with the back of his skull burning up and some sort of fuzzy headache brewing up there, Cato wasn't sure he could take the unnecessary babble for a minute longer. Clove didn't reply and although he didn't speak the words out loud, for that, the blond career was very thankful.

Things simmered down afterwards and it seemed like hours had gone by without anything happening.

Clove didn't move to try and stab him again, which confused him, but he didn't bring it up. Whatever the Capitol and the Gamemakers wanted of them was unclear. Cato edged closer to the girl, took her broken hand in one of his, ignored how she winced and snarled at him and pulled her close.

It was not really a facade as much as it was something that he'd wanted to do, given the fact that he was so close to losing consciousness and when that happened, he was fairly certain it would be his last waking moment. The thoughts seemed to fill his mind, and gnawed at his consciousness as surely as the snarling creatures below were sure to do to his face in short order.

He was being eaten alive in his mind, as surely as he would be in body, and with this knowledge he desired a last bit of comfort, even if it could only come from her.

Though his actions might have arguably been suspect, and his pride was clearly failing him, he did not wish to relinquish his reputation entirely by way of stupidity, and as such, he forced his eyes to stay open, sharp, and to move so that Clove really could do nothing without his awareness. He lay holding her so her every muscle was pressed squarely against his.

After what felt like forever that they had been lying up here, and although neither of them spoke, it was clear, to Cato, that they had the same idea in mind. Whoever slipped first was dead and he was hoping that it would not be him, because in spite of everything he had done, Cato was very, very intent on staying alive, especially now. Honor or glory didn't concern him nearly as much right now, only survival mattered.

These thoughts occupied his mind as the corners of his eyes started to blur over and even though he knew it was Clove's flesh that his hands were gripping, he really couldn't feel it, or anything at all besides the trickle of blood running past his eyes. That trickle had steadily increased in volume to a near flood... and fuck, there was still no pain, only a slow lull that tilted his senses and urged him to simply drift off to sleep. The desire was almost too tempting.

"Clove?" Cato muttered, tight and rough, not wanting any more oxygen to escape him than necessary, in a futile attempt to will his body and mind back into a state of awareness.

"Hmmm?"

"Who do you...?" He paused, not unsure but incapable of continuing without taking a break. "...Think will win?"

"You should've killed me when you had the chance, asshole." A soft grin caused the corners of her mouth to curl and Cato really wasn't sure what to make of it.

"Yeah... Guess so." Although he couldn't feel her cold body becoming colder against his, Cato still moved to nuzzle the side of her cheek, forcing his lips to twitch upwards in what would've been a lopsided grin, but right now, it really didn't look like anything sensible. "You're right. I should've. You're fucking... lucky." Once more the cannon broke the silence with a thoroughly deafening roar.

Ecstatic didn't start to cover how Clove felt, she was positively blown away by the announcement and right now, its implications or the fact that Cato was still alive, breathing heavy against her chest, didn't quite make it past the outer layers of her mind.

He, on the other hand, simply slumped forward, unsure of whether or not this was another ploy from the Gamemakers, but completely uncaring. He was incapable of doing anything but glancing at the pool of red sticking to his jumper, and he didn't think he was conscious any longer.

The only true awareness he had was that of an intensely bright light shining from somewhere above. Cato knew he was still breathing because, well, he could see his throat constrict as something was forced past down his nostrils. He would've gagged but there was no strength left to do that, so he didn't do anything at all, and sighed gratefully as sleep finally enveloped him.

_They had been announced winners!_ The thought seemed to flash across his mind as clearly as a sign when Cato awoke. He drank in this information, and it was really all that mattered because neither of them would have to die, because Cato wouldn't have to die, and right now, that was a thousand times more important than allowing Clove to taint his brief, wary thoughts. Cato flopped backwards against the leather seat of the van.

He had absolutely no strength left in his veins, not even the oomph to crane his neck upwards and glance at where Clove must have been. It didn't matter. They were still alive. They were alive and whatever consequences this would bring upon them, there was nothing that Cato could do to overshadow the fact that they were ALIVE.

"Come on." But he didn't move to stand up, and he wasn't really sure towards whom his words had been directed, because it was immediately clear that despite still being able to feel her touch and her breath against his face, Clove had been removed away from him and he had been left alone.

* * *

Bright, blinding, light. Cato blinked his eyes violently open and closed, trying to adjust them to the harsh halo of artificial light that was assaulting his newly regained vision. He looked about himself and did not readily see any physical restraints, there was nothing holding his wrists, but for whatever reason, Cato couldn't move. He found himself standing in place, apparently immobilized.

His mind raced for answers. His ears caught some faint bleeps going off by his side, beyond his shoulder. He assumed it might be something important, the sounds were hurried and blaring, but their existence or purpose didn't quite register to his mind, nothing did.

Someone was fussing over him but he really couldn't see much of their face, or make logical sense of what they were doing to him, so he ignored the onset of confusion and tried to slide back into whatever mindless sleep he was in before. He was somewhat comforted by knowing that the capitol would never allow them- him, to die, and that next time he opened his eyes, that he'd feel better... What was it someone once said about assumptions?

"You think..." The words faded in and out of Cato's head, and he barely held on to them. They sounded far away, as if there were layers of haziness between him and whoever was muttering them out loud.

"...what are his chances?"

"Chances? You think he won't make it?" There was another voice, quiet, gentle. It reminded Cato of someone, but he couldn't quite conjure their image or name to his mind.

A loud bleep broke through the fog around him; Cato tried to focus on the conversation going on around him. He was sure he couldn't move at all, but that didn't stop him from trying. They didn't notice it, at first.

"Nah, that's not it. He'll make it."

"Blood pressure is lowering." the faceless voice insisted.

"Watch out! The guy's awake."

"Chill, Rose. He's bound," the male voice snorted aloud. "Besides, with these kinds of injuries, what do you think he'll do? I know what he'll do. Nothing at all, for a long time."

Almost as soon as the words faded away, Cato felt himself relax. What did they just do? Give him another sedative? A soft sigh broke through the otherwise artificial silence.

"Did you watch the guy? He's a beast." The tone was just barely fearful, and Cato didn't catch it almost at all. He didn't care.

"Haven't had too much time, there are so many... victims," she croaked.

"Hey, none of that bull crap here." The rougher voice sounded like it was so far away Cato could barely make it out.

"Of course." Controlled. Fake. "I just... never mind. Thank you."

They stopped for so long that whatever part of Cato's mind that had been grappling onto consciousness ceased to hold on, and he might have just drifted away. Now there was nothing around him, there was no movement, no sound, no light and he was not sure of whether or not he was there at all.

* * *

"Figure he'll want this?" Rose spoke up; glancing at her colleague and motioning towards the pincer she was using to hold a little pointy scrap of metal. It was covered in thick, oozy liquid and she had just finished recovering it from inside the boy's shoulder wound.

"You know how crazy those victor types are. Just flask it," the voice wasn't friendly, but the hand on her shoulder was, and when he turned, there was the wicked hint of a smile on his lips.

"Good point." She placed the chunk in a see-through vial and set it aside.

"I know." He was fairly obnoxious, but also damn good at working through these kinds of injuries, so Rose was glad to have him around.

There was so much blood. The muscles of the boy's legs had been torn at some points and even as she worked to patch them up for the reconstructive surgery, she wondered how exactly it was possible that he managed to move at all, during those hours atop the Cornucopia.

Of course, she might not have been paying much attention, having been far too busy with preparing the other victims corpses and, she shuddered, modifying them, but there was no way to miss the large screen plastered in the middle of the room, nor the tension of what the victor—victors – she corrected herself – went through.

"How about the girl?" he asked suddenly and a patch of flesh trembled under her palm. Her peer was now using a large hypodermic needle to inject something into the unconscious boy's vein.

She should pay closer attention to it, but there were muscles bare beneath her fingers, any false movement might paralyze her patient, and probably rob her of her own life. "What about that?" She cut through a thin layer of skin to reveal more of the torn flesh, concentrating. "She's not being taken care of—"a rolled up ball of gauze was shoved beside her, and Rose's eyebrow rose at the gesture, appreciatively. It'd help clear the bleeding after she was done, "by this team."

"I know, I know. Just asking. You heard anything?"

"She was supposed to have won." Rose had no idea why that didn't happen, but if there was any curiosity sparking through his mind, she ignored it completely. This was neither the time nor place to ask that kind of question. If ever.

"I know," he placed a mask over the victor's mouth, and worked on setting another tube down his nostrils, keeping watch on the number of devices around them. Most of them flashed or bleeped at regular intervals. Everything was fine.

"What do you figure they'll do?" More unnecessary questions which just about made her sigh.

She bit back the sound, but not her reply. "Oh, just shut up."


	4. Chapter 4

The sun was rising and spreading its tendrils across the edge of the arena when the deafening sound first reached her ears. Its rays curled and twisted on the vast horizon, revealing what appeared to have been a bloody massacre down below under the rim of the Cornucopia. There was certainly enough red and unknown fleshy body parts for that to have been true.

The ugly muttations slowly made their way back towards the forest at the edge of the clearing, growling and snapping at each other and, ignoring the show the beasts were putting on, Clove pushed herself away from them, using one elbow to maneuvere against the plate she had been leaning on.

Her blond partner, Cato, was silent but his chest moved steadily up and down by her side and she considered poking him with the razor sharp tip of her knife. If the volume of blood staining his clothes was anything to go by, she would be, indeed, ending his suffering. It would have been easy, but not too useful, though. Because THEY, plural, had been declared winners and two large vehicles had appeared a good dozen feet above them and the net covering the whole arena seemed to have been shut off.

It had been invisible before, so it was very difficult to tell for sure but given everything else which seemed to happen around her in a flash, Clove found that to be the easiest explanation.

She didn't want to think of him or their situation at all and ended up twisting her head upwards and glaring at the starless dawn. Streaks of orange and pink populated the dark sky and for some reason, the pastel tones brought back memories of their kiss. Ah. Their excuse for a kiss and something she was certain she didn't ever want to repeat. Not at all, simply not with him. Clove didn't think she would be able to do anything 'with him' again. Her good hand curled down, nails scraping the soft flesh of her palm at the thought of having to spend another minute with Cato, at the interviews, the victory tour...

It was useless to resist, but that didn't stop her from fighting the thoughts back from where they had risen. In an attempt at pushing them away, she struggled with Cato's heavy body and, taking a couple seconds to catch her breath, managed to slide herself away. The blood slicking the metal plates under her bottom turned an otherwise impossible task into something difficult, whereas doable. She didn't, however, manage to hoist herself up, because as soon as she rose to her knees, a voice travelled through the mild darkness and rung against her ears.

"Come on darling," suddenly, a shrill voice shouted from above, drowned out by the vicious and rather chilly wind which had picked up, created by the machine's powerful engines. It caused the edges of Clove's coat to flap uselessly against her broken limb and she grit her teeth together, jaw clenching at the pain which shot through it.

After a moment, a hand gripped down onto the top of her shoulder and within another, she could finally see whom it belonged to. Through the blurry corners of her eyes, Clove could see where Cato's body was being moved. There must have been at least two forms standing around him and there was some sort of harness around his chest. It was awful and somewhat satisfying to see him hauled up like that and she stared intently until something tapped against her arm.

She barely bit back on the snarl and turned towards the man whose hand was now carefully wrapped around her arm. Within a moment, he'd pulled it in his flimsly grasp and moved her free hand to rub slow circles on the skin there. Raising one eyebrow, Clove glared at him but her expression quickly shifted to one of desbelief which smothered anything else away. Obviously, she had been aware of the Capitol's odd sense of fashion, had seen it before the Games, but this was just fucking priceless and she didn't hold back the mirthful scoff driven by exaustion and sheer irritation.

The man, or at least what she assumed was a man, had what looked like black feathers – fucking feathers! – covering the whole of his face and running down his bare neck and shoulders. They'd been trimmed down and looked rather soft. If it weren't such an incredibly idiotic idea, and she weren't already so pissed at everyone around her, Clove might have reached out to touch them.

"My name is Jackdaw." In spite of the obvious name, the androgynous voice was enough to confuse anyone, she thought, but remained silent, "and this," he gestured towards a number of others, all of whom snapped their heads upward at the same freaking time, as soon as the words were spoken, "is my team. My flock. We'll be taking care of you, deary. Just relax."

They all looked different from one another. There must've been at least a dozen others surrounding her in the hovercraft and while Jackdaw stood out from among them, there were all sort of exotic looking men and woman, all of them vaguely resembled different species of birds. Most of them she had never seen or even heard of before but some Clove remembered from sneaking peaks at old children books, back on Two, back before she had to train. A lithe female had bold black lines streaked across her milky white face and eyes which resembled those of a falcon, sharp and with long oval pupils where they should have been round. Whilst another, even smaller girl, which Clove thought could only be twelve or thirteen at best, had a crest of long, blue tendril-like feathers and flowing hair, like a bluejay.

The girl blinked and opened her arms. She reached for some sort of machine beside her, in the process revealing what looked, to Clove's unsteady vision, strangely like a pair of wings with fingers at their ends instead of feathers.

Even if Clove had been close to slipping off into unsconciousness, after the announcement it felt almost as if her body had been wired up and pumped with electricty and this new strangely fantastic vision didn't quite help her tone down. She vibrated in a way that had nothing to do with being several feet off the ground inside the hovercraft and there was no way she would have been able to rest back and appreciate the ride now. Still, it was with more bite than she'd intended that her eyes narrowed and a growl left her lips as one of the nameless, practically faceless others took a hold of her good wrist and slid something around it.

Within a moment she'd pushed a lanky and oddly angled female away, barely paying much attention as she flinched and scurried away and simply turned to glance down at her own hand. There was some sort of golden device there which pressed firmly against the skin at the base of her palm. She stared at it, trying to figure it out and drowning out the hushed conversation which started to pick up around her.

"You think she'll notice?" Someone tried to speak in a whisper, under their breath, and failed hopelessly at it, from the way their voice broke and rose in pitch.

"Hmm, perhaps. Isn't that the point of it?" Another voice spoke up, questioningly.

"True, yes. That's good." A third one provided, sounding absurdly smug to the part of Clove's mind that was paying attention.

It made no sense whatsoever, only serving to irritate her further. She urged to tell them all the shut the hell up, to reinstate that she wasn't in the mood to deal with a flock of such absurdly extravagant and downright obnoxious birds. But of course, all of her protests were pushed aside by a hand brushing her cheek. She hadn't noticed it before, but right now, Clove could see that there were little claws at the end of the man's every finger, replacing what would have otherwise been normal fingernails.

"Just lie down there." Jackdaw was back and through the dim light which streamed from above, Clove could see golden lines tattooed across his face, shaped around his nose and lips, vaguely resembling a beak. As well as how odd his glass blue eyes shone, not terrifying as much as they were strangely enticing. Clove didn't even realize that she was staring at him until something pushed against her back and she fell backwards against it.

Her bruised muscles ached from the sudden movement as she slammed down on a somewhat cushioned surface, and if Clove hadn't already felt pretty barenaked with the lack of her weapons she would now. Hands, with disgustingly spider long, bony fingers crawled over her. It was a scene straight out of even her nightmares and she strugged against them for as long as humanely possible. Despite having been trained to withstand extreme pressure, Clove couldn't help but realize, as a leather strap moved around her windpipe, that this was something she could not battle. Her head was pushed down against a hard surface and she screamed as her jacket was ripped away from her skin.

"What the fuck—let me go!" she hissed, baring her teeth at the man above of her and leaning forward with the intent of biting his face off. She twisted across the chair and attempted to raise her good hand to claw at his face. "Stop it! Stop it!" It was pathetic but she so desperately wanted out of here and away from these insane people and their twisted plans, whatever they may be.

"Calm down, sweety." Someone ran what felt like a brush across her forehead, stroking some of her damp, blood soaked hair away, and the motion instilled some sense of terror inside of her heart. No, she didn't want to calm down. She couldn't. "Just relax," the voice tried to soothe her, calm her down, but all Clove could see were mesmerizing and terrifying glimpses of gold and black feathers. It felt like she was being smothered, drowned by them.

How they were supposed to make anything 'okay' was beyond Clove's comprehension, but she did relax. After all, within moment's something had been pressed against the sensitive skin of her neck. She could see a plunger being depressed, a syringe full of dull looking yellow liquid being pumped into her veins and she bit down on the corner of her mouth, waiting for the pain that never came.

Whatever the drug was, it didn't act as fast as she would have liked it. It was with some sort of annoyance that Clove realized that her mind slowly clouded over. It became more and more difficult to come up with any sort of coherent thought and after a couple of minutes she stared blankly at the white space in front of her and drifted off.

"Well, let's take a look at you, shall we?" The words came from several layers away but felt almost as if they were being whispered right against her ear. They felt utterly alien, but Clove didn't fight back the shudder nor the lopsided grin which settled on her face as several shadows crossed her line of vision and circled her form. Like a murder of crows. Like that... man she could remember from before, definitely as dark and feathered as him, she thought before finally blanking out.

When Clove came back to her senses, her eyes were heavily lidded and there was something sticking out the corner of her mouth and stuck down her throat. She quickly found out she couldn't move her face at all and it made watching the scene around her difficult, but not impossible. Swallowing, however was excruciating and she couldn't bring herself to push the lump which had settled within her throat away. It sank down to her stomach and weighed heavily inside her.

That was when she noticed it. She would have shouted out, if that were possible, and not out of any sort of physical restriction either. Her broken arm was splayed in front of her chest, which had now been wrapped up. It was... open, was probably the best way Clove could think of to describe the image.

She could see the way her muscles twitched as they were poked with some sort of long shiny metal probe, as well as flashes of white as her shattered bone was revealed from under all the red. It was hideously hypnotizing and Clove forced her dark eyes to follow more or less closely what was happening, until someone's finger dug inside of her arm, close to her wrist and idly, nonchalantly snapped a piece of what she could identify as her tendon off.

She snapped. Or would have, but Clove had never felt this powerless. Not even when she had been at Cato's every whim and unlike back then, right now, she couldn't move at all. Oh god, oh god, oh god, why had they not noticed anything? She was fucking awake and oh god. Clove urged to curl forward and puke her guts out, but she was still being held down by her one wrist whilst the other was... being torn apart. And as if that hadn't been enough, the drugs had her stuck awake, trapped inside her own mind.

Clove nearly wished she had died when they spoke up again. At least that would've been quick. She would have trusted her partner to at least hold her high enough in his regard to grant her that, and she would have perished happier than she was at the moment. Her confident fierceness now reduced to nothing but sheer horror.

"So," they spoke. The tone was masculine, strong, nearly gruff and very different from any of the voices she had heard earlier. Clove could absolutely not recognize who it was. From the angle her head had been pushed down at she couldn't look at them either but whatever curiosity she might have held was completely erased by impending fear. "You gonna go through with it?"

"Of course. We've got our orders, little birdy," Jackdaw's voice was, however, recognizable, for its pitch and the way it clicked. "Just do it. It's not like we have any other choice."

A long, cilindrical machine came into her line of sight. As far as Clove could see through her softly glazed eyes, its end resembled that of a ball point pen, and it glowed bright blue. "Sure, boss," said a voice whom Clove was pretty sure was a 'he', though she could only see a soft green light as his fingers moved over her arm. The device-slash-pen drew a line of light over her torn arm and it... for a moment, she forced her eyes shut, unable to watch as her flesh seemingly sizzled and crackled under the light's influence.

Clove opened them with great difficulty again within what felt like seconds, but by the time her vision managed to focus on the same image as before, there was nothing to see but bruised, dark red muscle and the faint glint of metal under it all. She had seen her fair amount of mutilation, of guttings, of people shredded apart, sometimes by her own doing. It should have bothered her and yet it never did. However, this scene was beyond anything she could come up with and although Clove could not tear her face away, she could just about feel horrified tears slide down her cheeks.

On of the other side, larger machines which protuded from the background flashed and beeped, blaringly loud. It was, as far as Clove could see, hooked through a thin transparent cord to a device which was wrapped around her thumb. The urge to yank it away was barely, but steadily overwhelmed by the sheer terror which grew inside her chest.

"Heart rate increasing. Let's wrap things up here." Someone moved over her chest and dragged a patch of white material under her arm, making quick work of tying it around her.

She had been close to believing that blessed sleep had already overcame her body and that there would be no more images of carnage or the torture those people were inflicting upon her when a new voice broke the fresh silence. It came in a hush, "So what if she remembers? You know what they said, this is a dangerous one. Well, not so dangerous after this, but you never know."

It made no sense to her and although Clove wanted nothing more than to claw out the throat of whoever was speaking, she was powerless to act and it only made her feeling of dread grow.

"Maybe she'll get the other guy to do something,"

"Him? You think?"

"Yeah, why?"

The conversation was fast, low and Clove could barely follow it at all. Still staring down at her mangled although now bandaged arm, she could catch bits and pieces of the words being uttered but not much else.

"You they... ...each other? Don't... ...they get along at all."

"True, wonder why..."

"Well," Jackdaw announced in a loud, commanding tone which obviously meant all the others were to shut up now. His words were accompanied by a loud buzz which got Clove to notice what sounded like blood rushing against the back of her head. "The anesthesia tends to make people pretty dizzy. So let's not worry about it, shall we?"

The next thing she noticed was something, or someone moving over her. She tried to blink and found it impossible and it was only when glass blue eyes stared down into her own that Clove realized it. She nearly cursed herself for her stupidity, her naivety. They had meant it. They had meant for her to watch this all along and the awful realization was her last coherent thought, before, once again, being kicked into oblivion by the pressure of a needle piercing just below her ear.


	5. Chapter 5

There was silence at first. Even though Cato was barely hanging on at the edge of consciousness, he could, somehow, practically sense how it nearly smothered him and drowned out everything else. It made moving very difficult and although he wanted to scramble upwards, his muscles were tired and they failed him. He tried to grasp at velvety smooth material he could start to feel pressed against his fingertips and it was with a strange strangled sound, somewhere between an annoyed huff and a sigh, that he gave up. Although he could now see the blindling white around him through half lidded eyes, he didn't make a move to try and push himself up again, not for a very long time.

Instead, Cato laid down on the sheets again, there was no point in forcing his eyes to remain open for even a second longer, so he didn't and they fell shut. Since there was no way of telling how long it had been since he'd gotten scooped from the top of the Cornucopia, his thoughts don't quite brush how he might be supposed to be up already and it was just as he was about to drift off back to the dreamless haze which seemed to tug at his every sense when something shifted.

It was slow, gentle and didn't make much sense at all. Cato was about to turn away and ignore it, or at least try to, when – well, whatever it was – came crashing back down on him with a vengeance and his mind snapped wide awake from the sheer pressure of the noise. Now there was no hazy fog swirling around of him nor the same half-mindlessness of just moments earlier, and whereas Cato wasn't fully conscious yet, he tossed and turned until his elbows pressed down on the matress and his head slid up against the wall behind him.

It only took a glance for Cato to realize where he was. After all, this was exactly where he'd spent a good deal of time before the games had begun. His eyes swept across the room and although it was extremely difficult to concentrate and pay any attention to the details, everything he could focus on was still in the places he remembered. A large wooden grey wardrobe by the corner, the tv set plastered against the wall just in front of him. It was all there but all he could take in were the rough grey walls, the door which appeared to tremble on its hinges... his face turned to the side, to look at it as his eyes fell slightly more open from the slits they'd been narrowed down to.

The obnoxious rhytmical sound, the one which he now realized with a breathy huff, woke him up, was actually someone, or something knocking at the door, and to be aware of that nearly threw him off from the reverie he'd been indulging, or at least, had been stuck in while observing his surroundings.

Cato had no idea of how it happenned. One moment and he was sure he'd have been sitting up somewhere, a bed covered in coarse and hard material, but still relatively comfortable beneath him and in the other he was standing in the middle of the room and the world spun around him at a dizzying speed. Reality appeared to tilt and Cato just about faltered on his legs, muscles twitching and feeling as if his stomach was about to succumb to the nauseous sensation.

It stopped after a moment, but he realized he didn't feel quite able to take another step. He still did, propelled forward by some invisible force, at least that was the easiest way of explaining the way he stumbled onward.

Only when his hand landed on the doorknob, which was cold and constrasted sharply with his relatively warm skin, did Cato realize what he was about to do. Somehow, he blamed it on the drugs, because although his head was clear, it was practically a wasteland of thoughts, and whereas he moved, Cato realized that his steps were heavy and his actions were, somehow, on auto pilot. He wasn't acting, only reacting. With a swift twist the door clicked open and he barely had the time to step backwards, still on automatic, before it swung open, missing his face by mere inches.

It was easier to understand what might have been done to him, now, as a brutally large man stood near the doorway. He matched and surpassed Cato's height by a couple inches, something which should be no easy task but Brutus appeared to have been effortlessly built. He was wide, muscular and with tiny eyes, a picture which vaguely reminded Cato of the twisted dogs chasing him during the last day in the arena.

If he was in any sort of condition to worry about being punched, he might've flinched, but he was not and he stood still, waiting for the other male to advance. Brutus did, of course, after a split second of tenserly glaring at the blond victor and Cato took another step back, resting on the ball of his heels.

"Hey," as the word swirled around his head, Cato realized that it barely sounded like him. If it weren't for his extensive training he would have panicked, as it was, he didn't have to bite back on a panicked reaction which never came to be, at the admission of his own mindlessness.

"Hey?" Maybe he should've seen it coming, but Cato didn't and it was with a surprised gasp that he realized he must've blanked out for a split second, because suddenly there was a hand clawing at his shoulder. It hurt and Cato didn't quite grasp at the reason for why the pain was so blatant before he turned his face and realized that the whole top of his chest had been bandaged. "They really did a good number on you, uh?" The fingers curling against his knife wound pressed on further and it felt like he was being skewered.

For some reason, whatever drugs had been shot through his veins, they didn't stop the excruciating ache which rippled across Cato's collarbone and nearly overode all his years of training.

No words came to his rescue and despite the ardor swirling up his chest, he didn't interrupt nor reply to Brutus' question. One way or another, it felt rhetoric and for a moment he was being shaken out of his own life, the room was spinning and woah, Cato pressed one palm firmly against his forehead, and he waited what felt like an eternity for the explosion. He had trained long enough under the man's wing to know what tended to happen now, and it was without doubt that it did.

The snarl was biting, edgy. "So, you really fucked it up, uh. You know what they're going to you, right? You should've wished you'd died by the mutattions." Brutus looked at him with a strange expression plastered on his face, curling the corners of his mouth in a disgusting smile and Cato could see the edges of his teeth. He was not sure why he focused on this detail but the glistening white smile nearly made him sick.

"I don't know what you're talking about," This was clearly not the right way of dealing with the situation and despite the chemicals which must have been flooding his system and numbing every part of his body to the point that he figured he would've been writhing down on the floor from the grip on his shoulder if it weren't for them, Cato was clearly aware of how Brutus hated being challenged. His tone was too soft and too grey to be meant as one but even nonchalancy wasn't going to change the meaning of his words. Predictably enough, the fingers on his shoulder flexed down and Cato just couldn't bite back on the gasp that jolted passed his lips.

"Thought as much." Brutus' hand moved away, falling flat against his own hip, and the pain of having his torn muscle free from the pressure was just as excruciating as having it gripped down upon in the first place.

Once again, Cato had absolutely no clue of how to even conjure a remotely coherent reply and ended up not saying anything at all. He drew in a sharp and unsteady breath. It wasn't a good choice and it probably pissed Brutus off, but Cato wasn't quite in the state of mind to try and argue with his own mentor. Not when the other was threateningly close, only a couple inches away from him and he still wasn't quite sure of how flat the floor he was standing on actually was.

"Yeah well. You WILL soon," the growl broke through the otherwise relative quietness and pounded against the inside of Cato's ears. "Consider yourself fired." Nothing could have prepared him for those words and although it took a long moment for Cato to finally grapple at their intent, the blow was unmistakeable.

"What?" He shouldn't have been opening his mouth but apprehension flooded Cato, and while it really didn't feel that bad, it was simply a multiplitude of ways worse than anything the, apparently ex-career could have came up with. It was difficult to consider what the words might have meant, and he didn't have the capacity to try and do so properly right now.

"What?" Brutus repeated, his hands clenching down into fists and causing the bones on his knuckles to slowly turn a milky shade of white. Furious wouldn't have started to describe the jagged tone that blew past his hideously large lips. He might've looked like a monster, but the features reminded Cato more of himself that he would've enjoyed to admit. "You fucked up, kid," the one word that was usually reserved for the lesser failures of District Two. Cato didn't wince but he felt the blow of it all the same. "But they'll make you pay, so I won't bother."

His hands were still firmly pressed down into huge, powerful balls of muscle, tendon and bone and Cato could see that he was shaking and that some veins twitched on the side of his neck that weren't covered in the black fabric of his training suit. If he hadn't been trained by this man for so long, Cato might have not realized this, but at that point, he noticed that the other's movements were not produced out of anything but half contained, red hot rage, or some sort of hysteria. It was difficult to tell for sure. And if he hadn't already been aware of how damn great Brutus was at controlling himself, a downright perfect example of a victor, he would've waited for his mentor, or was it ex-mentor now, to snap again.

For the first time since he had woken up, Cato's mind brushed on the thoughts of what had brought him here. There had never been two victors of the Hunger Games before and it was never a question that their District would practically blow up at the sheer shame of having them win together, but despite the fierce way he had held on to his life, he had never quite realized that yes, he would actually make it. And now, it all felt as if it were falling apart. Even though he hadn't considered these things before, Cato's guts still coiled and twisted inside of him.

"And behave, will you?" Brutus spoke and it wasn't the condescension that first caught up to him, it was the awfully bright humiliation, which rippled through his chest as if it were something physical instead of just an emotion. In case his mentor's actions had not been enough, the words burned in a way that was far more intense than even the hold on his shoulder had been. Cato winced but didn't move, either to step away or open his mouth to speak, to say something, anything. He didn't dare.

The glare he receive in return for his lack of reaction was an intense one and even though Brutus eyes would have burned a hole through his forehead, if that were possible, they still didn't cause him to act out. Casting aside the thought of how, were this any other time, Cato might have been at the man's throat, how he had been prepared to do so and how deeply the other's words had touched him, was difficult. He shifted on the balls of his feet, tugging his gaze away from Brutus' form and turned his face downwards.

Cato nearly expected to be pushed again, to be pushed up against the wall and otherwise abused. His muscles tensed again and the change was completely out of instinct. Because while this had never happened to him before, there were enough rumours going around District Two for him to know exactly what happened to failures, for him to know exactly how they were dishounoured and tormented. Despite the dopey haze, Cato was fully aware of this, after all, he had been there for some of them. He could remember with with scary vividness, a memory in full blown detail, its colours and sounds enveloping him, how the neck of some young teenaged boy had cracked under his fingers. It'd never crossed his mind before, but Cato now realized he'd never known what the boy had done wrong.

A loud roaring bang snapped him out of his thoughts and he realized he hadn't been paying attention to his surroundings. It was either stupid or completely natural and Cato couldn't decide between the two of them. He ended up not being able to and before anything else could change, he noticed that Brutus wasn't standing a couple feet away from him any longer and that the wide grey door had been slammed shut, not quite in his face but it had the same intent, he was sure of it.

As if that hadn't been enough, he could hear how his mentor lingered on the other side. "Pathetic." If the way the words were shouted out just loud enough so that Cato could still hear them through the door's thick material wasn't enough, then the fact that it was a grim, smug statement instead of a simple comment, would have been. "And that was a PATHETIC excuse for a kiss."

It felt like a sledgehammer slamming down onto his chest, squarely knocking every little puff of air out of Cato's lungs. He wheezed. It was slow and despite the drugs, barely controlled. Although the memory of Clove had brushed his mind earlier, the kiss was hazy, almost as if Cato had dreamed it all along, and well, he found that he loathed to consider it real now, from how horrible the memories of it were. Even if it had been real, he was sure it could not have been the reason for both of them to have been claimed victors. And since he was alive, he almost wished it had all been a terrible mistake and she had died all along.

From the other side, he heard the echoing footsteps fading, but that didn't come close to stopping him. In a flurry of movement that could not have been held back, Cato strode forward towards the door. He barely remembered his actions from earlier or the exact words Brutus had used. Where, moments earlier there had been white mildness, there was now only searing rage which made his blood boil. Was this the drugs finally leaving his system? Cato didn't know.

His fists came to pound against the door, loudly, and he rested them against the hard wood. Cato's jaw slacked open and his face twisted in blatant outrage, "Like you would know, right? Fuck you. Fuck this! I'm just so fucking tired of all this crap. You know what? Yeah, that's why, I should have died, why don't you—" And like a freight train that thought hit him hard. He SHOULD have died, he was so damned close to it and yet here he still was dealing with this crap.

He nearly expected Brutus to turn back, but that never happened. Instead, Cato was left completely alone, nearly drowning in the silence which now stretched around him. Maybe this had been Brutus plan all along, after all, his mentor would know how to push his every button. Cato wasn't too sure of whether or not this was surprisingly smart or terribly stupid of him to be affected, but it was most likely both. His chest heaved, up and down, against the door and he didn't bother moving for a very long time.

The lock never clicked and Cato knew he had not been locked away to rot inside this room, but he might as well have been. He briefly considered twisting the knob and stalking outside, chasing after Brutus and... Well, his thoughts didn't really reach that far.

At some point, he returned to the bed. His memories didn't reach quite as far as to remember moving down to lie on the bed, collapse on the matress, nor pulling up the thin sheet which covered him up to his chest, but the next time he was conscious there was a vast sea of white crashing around of his body in waves and his limbs were wrapped in flimsy fabric.

Cato moved his hand and tried to shake it off his body. Hours before and the lack of success might have thrown him off, but right now his brain was more conscious and his body felt less like the wreck it had, days before being proclaimed a victor. So instead of giving up, Cato sighed with a twitch of his lips and wearily tried again.

It did take him a while to disentangle the sheets from where they'd formed a thick warm cocoon around his torso, but it was with relatively less effort that he pushed himself off the matress and, pressing his palm upon it, moved his back against the wall. Thankfully, the surface of it was cool and he exaled at the somewhat pleasant sensation.

It was, however, with much less contentement that Cato found himself, once again, staring at the nearly empty room without a goal. Difficult was an understatement, perhaps the biggest he had ever heard.. Despite having watched nearly all of the previous Hunger Games, back to the Dark Ages after they had just started being aired live, he had absolutely no idea what to expect and although Cato had been trained out of being terrified, he was certainly apprehensive at the idea of what was left for him, especially after Brutus' visit and the man's cryptic words.

More than anything else, though, he wanted to understand. He wanted to know WHY this has happened. Cato had never been very curious, he had never thought about things more than the necessary to get through them sucessfully. Now he did, and that was surprising. Which is why, as soon as an idea crossed his mind he didn't bother doublechecking it. There was no need to even push himself up and Cato simply reached out towards a little bedside table by his left, feeling more than looking at what he was doing, and took a small device into his palm. He pointed the controller at the tv and nimbly moved his thumb down on it.

Within a moment, the screen flashed blinding white and Cato turned his head away, moving one hand over his forehead to shield his eyes from the sudden bright light. It wasn't dark inside the room, but the dim light streaming through the curtains beside the bed was barely enought to prepare him for this.

Recaps of the games were being screened in several different channels and he browsed idly through some of them before settling on a random one. Cato figured it doesn't quite matter WHERE he was watching it from as much as what exactly he was watching. And right now, he was watching... himself.

He remembered this scene, after all, he had been there only a couple days earlier. He had lived through it. He had caused it to happen and now he watched as it blew up in his face.

It started with a stupidly close zoom of his face and Cato pondered on how he'd never noticed the cameras. Slowly, the other tributes, the other members of the career pack were shown as well.

Glimmer's flowing blond hair shined with the light dancing down from the thick canopy above and he could now remember her face in full, artifical detail. Maybe the television had edited her footage, maybe it was meant for District One, because she looked downright otherworldly in a way Cato had never noticed before. Of course, that was before her being disfigured at the tracker jacker's hands, or rather, stings, and before her untimely, albeit incredibly useful death.

Not that he'd ever had anything against the girl, but if not then, she would have died at some other point in the Games. She was never meant to cut it. And neither was he. The realization hit him in the chest and pushed a heavy breath out of his lungs, it caused him to blink and just about slam the off button for the tv. Or to stomp his feet down and punch the screen. Either option was incredibly reckless and downright stupid, so he ended up not moving at all.

Marvel and Loverboy followed closely behind, practically on his heels. They broke through the forest and Cato was nearly surprised by how obnoxious they sound. Even Clove – whom he pushed as far away from his mind as possible – joined in the taunting, and although her voice was lower and more acute than the male's rough loud shouts, he could still hear her in the background. Couldn't get her out of his head.

"Go get her, Cato! Go get her, Cato!" They shouted together. He couldn't and wouldn't pay attention to the exact words, because the only thing which stood out to him was how he was being pitched onward. But they still rang inside his head. Like a mantra. "Go get her, Cato!" They called as if he were a very focused, fairly vicious dog. Like a dog who was far too excited to pay attention to anything but the ball which bounced right in front of its nose. It was never what he meant to do, but that was not enough to stop him.

This time, he did snap, but instead of releasing, his muscles tensed and all he did was move his fingers, pressing down to change the channel. So that the screen flashed again before settling back onto a different view.

It was still about the Hunger Games of course and for some incredibly silly reason, either coincidence or very wicked luck, it was still mostly about him. Of course, he was a victor, that was to be expected, but he didn't time the extravagant commentator, Flickerman he realized, was saying something about how focused the careers were under his leadership and Cato didn't bite back on the snort. "That's bullshit," he shot out and although there was no one else in the room, he still glanced around instinctively.

Flickerman talked for a little longer, babbling on and on about something Cato had no desire to hear and payed little attention to.

And then, with little warning, the scene changed. The background went from the Capitol's fancy interview room to a far away shot of the Cornucopia and it felt like his heart had suddenly skipped a beat. Cato's mind thrust him back to the exact moment it had happened. It was still difficult to remember much from back then, besides the way his muscles had ached and the threat of impending death which had loomed upon him. But at least now he could see it as it happened and it wasn't every bit as tense as he remembered it. It wasn't.

"Isn't this lovely?" Commented Flickerman, clearly using his voice to point towards the picture of both Cato and Clove pressed against one another, their faces practically glued together. It should have been awfully forced, and although he remembered clearly – damnit! – how Clove had tried to push him away and tensed up, the scene now rolling in front of his face showed otherwise.

The images had been zoomed in and skillfully cut so that the whole thing felt like it had been distorted and twisted out of context. To him it was easy to realize that, as well as how the viewers might have been manipulated.

"Indeed," spoke a different voice and Cato urged to gag, it was all wrong and if that was how he won, Cato nearly felt ashamed that he had been left alive. "The true starcrossed lovers were under our noses all this time. What do you think, Cesar?"

The screen cut to a scene of the blue haired man taking a sip of his purple fizzy drink and nodding. His chubby face widened in a large smile and his eyes glistened at the same time as Cato's free hand curled around the edge of a bedsheet and squeezed down on it. "Oooh, indeed. And it is SO exciting to have another District's tributes together."

"And District Two!"

"I know! It is quite incredible, Claudius!" They giggled together and Cato's eyes narrowed deeply.

"How do you think their," he hesitated and Cato asked himself if they possibly, somehow knew the truth, "love started?"

This time, an excruciatingly slow picture of him and Clove's kiss was being streamed in full detail. If he weren't already so worked up about this, he might have found the details disgusting. Their lips met and instantly he tried to take over, one of his hands come to press against her chin and—Cato realized he didn't remember these movements, and that either the kiss had been re-enacted or his mind had been far more gone than he'd thought it to be, back then.

It didn't quite matter, because there was something running down Cato's throat. His adam's apple bobbed up and down within his throat as he waited for Cesar and Claudius to continue with their commentary. Despite the way his knuckles now ached from the pressure, or how his teeth were firmly clenched together, or the veins throbbed on the side of his neck, Cato wanted for them to move on. He wanted to know. Right now, it didn't matter whether or not he had intended for the kiss to be his one last call, his last chance because its meaning had been twisted far beyond anything he had ever meant by it.

Besides it was illegal to train the careers. He knew this. And he was perfectly aware of how he and Clove had first met, back when they had started training at the same academy. What he didn't know was how widely known and accepted this fact was, so he watched, intently, eyes not leaving the screen for even a second, for whatever story the Capitol had connocted to make up for the backlash of having two winners, or what sort of strange backstory they had created to make up for their sudden feelings for one another.

"Oh, I don't know." Of course he didn't, there was nothing to know. Cato bite back on a bitter snort. Did anyone know? "Perhaps we should ask some of the lovely people in the audience. What do you think?"

"That is a great idea!" It didn't matter, he was not listening for a second longer. It was unlikely that they were about to interview anyone from District Two and he was not in the mood to listen to old victors bantering about his or Clove's victory, especially not if they included Brutus. Cato had had enough of surprises and this twisted bullshit to last a life time.

The crowd cheered in the background for a couple of minutes, waiting for the two men to continue with their lovey-dovey crap, before he finally and surely pressed down on the controller, and caused the screen to fade to black. His head tilted back against the wall and he found himself staring upwards, gaqzing idly at the grey ceiling.

Cato had only a faint idea of what to make out of this. He was suffocationg under all the new information. Slowly, his fingers unclenched from where they had been firmly wrapped. He hissed at the slight pain shooting through his nerves and moved to rub his windpipe, pensively. Without the drugs flooding his system, it was easier to think and although he was not yet sure whether that was a blessing or a curse, he shunned all thoughts away. Brutus, Clove, the Capitol or even their supposed love. None of it mattered. It couldn't.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: Thank you all for the kind reviews. :) It means a lot to me that you guys think this story is worthwhile. Hope you enjoy this chapter!**

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Someone, another fucking bastard of a doctor, or a _bird,_ or whatever she was doomed to deal with, was knocking on the door. Clove heard the sound from far away. Shrill and irritatingly constant. Knock. Knock... a pause and another knock.

It rang distantly, almost as if it'd been dulled by one too many layers of bleary sleep. There really must have been no rest for the wicked, or the victors, because, before she had the time to react, the door had slid open. Before she could move one finger, someone stormed inside. Her hand twitched, gripping the grey comforter more tightly. She had been absentmindedly watching the television drone on about something. Easing in and out of consciousness. Maybe she should have paid attention to the commentator, but she didn't actually give one shit about it, or the information it might've provided her with.

It took a moment for her to turn her head and for her to focus on the form advancing inside the room. When she finally did, her heart skipped a heavy beat, ramming against her ribcage loudly. The sensation was far, far from good. Alone, it caused her stomach to churn in a way that had nothing to do with hunger.

Now it isn't the dark haired doctor – the one whose name she could not remember and whom had been pestering her for days by insisting on shoving figurative as well as very literal crap down her throat - nor is it the one "bird" who she wanted to gut gorily, or to pluck featherless. However, it is still someone she wanted to stab dead, but for a set of entirely different reasons.

Clove tensed when Cato stepped inside the room. Cato, of all persons in the fucking whole world. Cato. Just great. Her every muscle must have turned into solid ice because despite wanting to move, to somehow attack him and rip his goddamn heart out with her own bare teeth, she remained completely immobile. Her dark eyes stood firm on his form even as he closed the distance between them by a couple feet.

The anger was reckless, didn't make too much sense and Clove wondered exactly what it was that she was missing. After all, she was alive and relatively well. Despite everything she had gone through, death had never been an option. She pondered on this. He was most likely the one to thank for both the fact that she was still breathing as well as the pain that has been inflicted on her, but her mind can't settle on one coherent thought, not with him around, so close that she could practically feel the heat radiating off his body, so she gave up trying.

"Cato." She snapped, finally pushing herself together. She moved up onto a sitting position by the edge of the bed and her eyes narrowed, brows furrowing in deep creases on her forehead. Her expression was vicious and dangerous and all of the things she tried to be before but, considering everything which had happened thus far, had failed at.

For the first time since having strolled in, Cato lingered back and took a long glance at the room. Despite having never laid his eyes on it before, it only took a second and a rough sweep of his head for him to realize how similar the layout of this room was, to his own. Of course, that was to be expected, given that they both shared the same floor and the same District. The realization is acute and it caused his eyes to widen when he noticed the one difference between here and his own room. Unlike inside in his room, where has been left utterly alone after Brutus visit, there was a silent servant, an Avox standing beside the television screen. Their face is hidden in the shadows and Cato can't quite tell whether it's a man, a woman or anything else about them at all. If the presence annoys him, he doesn't mention it nor bother to acknowledge it.

His eyes focused on Clove's form, where she is leaning on the bed. He can't quite tell whether or not there is something else wrong with him but her otherwise somewhat tanned skin was a milky shade of white and surprisingly, there was some sort of device, which, as far as he can see, connects to the part of her arm which rests under the bedsheets. It beeps rhytmically and confuses him, simply because he had not realized she had been in such a bad condition..

"Yeah, I'm here." When he finally replied his voice was awfully quiet, seemingly at ease, only obviously not. Clove wanted nothing but to stab him, or throttle him, or do something stupid and vicious and lethal, and watch as all light leaves his eyes, because, that's just how furious she was at him right then and there. For starting this whole thing and for DARING to even visit her at all.

"I can see that, I can damn see that and—" Clove froze, if her eyes were not deceiving her, which she doubted they were, then there was something off with the blond boy, but she ignored it for the moment. "I don't like it one bit." She sneered, before trying to focus more clearly on him, training her eyes on his form and examining it.

To Clove, Cato looked like crap. He was still huge and very fit, but there was something to his face, some sort of hollowness that Clove really didn't like, not because of any sort of pretense, not because she cared, but because she really can't pinpoint what is wrong with him and that pissed the hell out of her. That there was something going on with him and she had no clue of what it was. She'd been left out again.

His clothes were somewhat loose where they should have otherwise fit against him snug and tight. When he moved, Clove could clearly see that one of his shoulders seemed to have collapsed downwards against his chest. It's not a pretty picture and she hated it with all of her being. Moreso when he talked again and instead of cold and brutal, careless tone there was something strange, a tentative edge to his voice, she spit on it and pushed one leg off the matress just so that she could stomp her foot down against the plastic floor.

"Go away." Clove nearly scared herself with how honest she sounded. She had no idea what her intentions were, but one way or another, she was not in the mood to deal with him at that moment, so she added again, breathing softly. "Just, go the hell away." She snapped and pushed her jaw together, so that there was barely any space to speak, before gritting out. "I don't want to see you again." It was not possible and she didn't want to even entertain the possibility for a moment longer, so her mouth fell tightly shut, after a moment.

For some insane reason, Cato's inability to end her life back in the arena came up within her mind and Clove was both smug and apprehensive. She had never questioned his words before and it seemed stupid of her to not do so now, but it almost felt as if there was some sort of unspoken truce between them, regarding that precise moment so she pushed her thoughts away from it.

"Nope. Uh, no." Cato tilted his head to the side and shot her a razor sharp grin which contrasted wildly with the placid expression of moments earlier. "I don't think I am going to do that." And he tilted his head sideways, shooting her the strangest glance, before adding, "Besides, how long has it been, how anyway, how long have you been...? Tell me."

Cato wanted to know but she ignored his question, or command, completely and glared at him, not wanting to reveal that no, she didn't know how long it has been either. "Oh fuck off, Cato, like I'm going to tell, right you?" Seriously, did he think she was that stupid? She should've been offended. "Why would you even-" Clove paused, and it wasn't uncertainty clouding her eyes. "Come here to see me? I'm not just going to forget that crap you pulled... before." She pushed forward and slid her hand off from where it'd been resting under a

He ignored the first question. It didn't matter whatever possessed him to come check on Clove, only that he was there now.

"I know." He ended up stating instead. He strode forward a few feet longer, not sparing one backward glance as the door slid shut behind him. For one utterly long moment, he nearly bit back on a tendril of fear – goddamned fear – at the thought of having been locked away with someone as obviously deranged as well, both him and Clove are. He admitted the truth to himself. Especially when the combination of them appeared to be an explosive one. Still, the lock never clicked and Cato's lungs expanded in relief as he let off a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"So you should know, you should..." She didn't bother telling him to get his ass off the room any more, that would've be incredibly pointless. "Know that you've just..." Suddenly, Clove realized she had no idea what she wanted to say, that she had no idea what to do besides trying to kill Cato, because there were no words to describe the emotions which swirled inside her mind.

"I do," he replied in a failed attempt at mildness. His voice was rough and nearly hoarse.

Clove's anger flared at the tone used and something within her chest turned pitch black. Before a moment had gone by, Clove threw the sheets covering her body away and she pushed herself up and just about against Cato's form. She stood fiercely, muscles tense, taut, ready and pushed the line hanging from one of her wrists out of the way. Her head tilted upward and she stared at where his own towers nearly a whole feet above. Any sliver of fear has been turned into fury by a sudden rush of adrenaline.

"No, you don't, you just, have no idea... you have no fucking clue. Did you even watch that crap on the tv?" She snarled, and shifted on her feet. Her stance was not defensive as much as it screamed of how much she urged to pounce him at the slightest movement. There was a sickening crack and the wire on her hand fells away. "Did you actually...?" She left the question hanging in the air and pushed further and raised her good arm to pound her first against the boy's chest. At least that was the plan but before she could act out, Cato's hand was wrapped around her wrist and she hissed, eyes burning furiously. "

"What the hell? What the hell do I have no idea of? That I saved both our lives." Cato snapped, nearly panicking with the proximity and he pressed one palm against the wall, curling his fingers against its firm surface. His eyes darted around the room, but the tv had been muted away and the Avox is still exactly where it'd been last time he looked. He steadied himself against it but didn't step back from where Clove was inches away from his chest, still holding one of her arms away from her, up in the air.

It didn't ocurr to him that he might not be the reason that they are both here.

"Does it even matter to be LIVING when we're stuck here, for however long, and they just-" Clove bit back on the fresh pain as she moved her wounded hand over her collarbone. She lifted the corner of the bandages which had been wrapped on her chest and peeled the sleeping robe away, revealing a bloody fresh cut which had been carved against the side of her breast. There's no ounce of shame in her face and her eyes burn. "No, you don't. You're a fucking mindless bastard, so just sod off, I don't want you here."

For some reason, instead of taking in the wound, or the way her pale skin appeared to glow against the reddened word he had so painstakingly cut into her flesh, Cato's eyes darted up her arm and there was a silent question hanging off his lips. But he didn't ask and she didn't answer. Instead, Cato

"Well, guess what." Clove watched as Cato's shifted on his feet, neither pressing forward nor easying away. He did, however, let go of the girl's wrist and crossed his arms in front of his chest. His muscles flexed. "You're fucking out of luck, because I'm not about to just vanish into thin air."

As soon as that happened, Clove pushed her arms back against her side. One hand clung to the soft fabric of her robe, resting against her hip, while the other's fingers smoothed over her chest, hiding the bare patch of skin which revealed the word Cato had cut down into it. "Bastard..." She shook her head, not amused as much as she her whole body nearly shook with barely controlled rage. "You're impossible." She added.

"Yup," Cato admitted and this time, he leaned back against the wall, thankfully putting a couple more inches of distance between their bodies. Although he was no longer practically crashing onto Clove, he could still feel the warmth rolling off her body and it bothered him, so that he turned his head away and glanced at the blank wall on the other side of the room."you know that. You already KNEW that. I haven't, will never change." It sounded like a statement but Clove wasn't sure if he was telling the truth and neither was Cato.

For an instant, the hint of a grin danced on her lips. "Yeah well, one could always hope you'd suddenly grow a brain," but her eyes quickly grew colder and her lips twitched downwards, more of a taunting scoff than anything else. She glared harshly into his icy blue eyes and her forehead creased, waiting for a scathing comeback that never really came.

They were at an impasse and Cato glared right back, matching her intensity and easily lended more depth to it. The pressure was insane and there was something definitely out of the ordinary going on. Neither moved and Cato was nearly certain that Clove was going to do something downright stupid like try and tackle him when some sort of strangled sound left her mouth and Cato's eyes narrowed further, down to slits.

He still didn't reply and after approximately a minute of dwelling in the tension that seemed to stretch in the space between the two of them, growing thicker with every moment gone by, Cato turned away. It was not a conscious decision but it was probably the best thing for him to do, he thought. His biceps twitched as he reached for the door again.

"Next time." He growled and as his eyes swept across the room for one last time, he realized that the silent Avox had moved and was now standing beside the bed and held a vial of something clear in its hands. It was still impossible to tell its gender and Cato could only gasp at how large it stands, at just about his height and size. Given that Clove appeared to be injured, this made no sense but he didn't dwell on it further.

"Don't bother. No need for a next time." She shot back and spun on her heel, a move that came off as less nimble than she had intended for the way she nearly stumbled forward. Thankfully the wall was close and she held out with one elbow against it, steadying herself and pushing the air off her lungs in a drawn out gasp.

Cato was moving through the doorway when Clove finally glanced back at him. It's not that she intended to spare him any more of her time as much as wanted to make sure he was gone, or at least, that was her defense for looking. Still, it didn't stop her from noticing the odd tilt to his expression and the equally strange way his lips curled. She was about to shout something at him again, not quite understanding and not quite caring for his taunting behaviour when she noticed that his eyes seemed to skip her.

Not quite able to help herself, she turned and slowly followed his gaze. It barely took any time at all before she noticed the Avox. Yes, it had been there since she'd first woken up in the room a couple of days earlier, but it'd never been this close. She didn't bother pitching down the look of disgust that washed over her features, instinctively pressing her back flatter against the wall.

Cato stared for a second longer. He wasn't sure of whether the brunette's sudden movement was a shiver or something far more violent, or fearful. But at this point, he didn't particularly care for it either.

The door fell shut behind his back and Cato glanced at the long corridor stretching in front of him. He strode forward and made it halfway back to his room before an idea diverted him away.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: I'm sorry about the tense change. In all honesty, I've had this written for over six months and it just wasn't getting looked at. So here you have it instead. I apologize in advance for all (possible) typos and slip-ups. They're all mine, as this hasn't been beta-ed. :P**

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One, tense. Two, tense. Three, release.

He repeats the movement over and over gain. This is what Cato has been taught for years, it's practically all he excels at, but he knows that he would've probably enjoyed it just as much if he hadn't. There's this sort of unexplainable freedom about being able to feel his every muscle ripple under his skin as well the ease which smooths down his every action. Even the way his clenched fists moves, barely touching the dummy's plastic feels incredibly natural.

Only after knowing exactly what to do and how to move in order to achieve the results he pretends does he move toward the weapon rack. Cato ponders on whether or not all the weapons are still supposed to be stored here as his blue eyes dart over the number of different swords, daggers, axes, flails and others which are available for him to browse through. The choice is easy. He isn't looking for further extending his expertise and he settles on a nicely balanced stainless steel machete, much alike the one he has during the games.

Its handle fits his palm perfectly, as if it has been made for him. For all Cato knows and cares, it might as well have. When his fingers close around the hilt all other thoughts – of far more complicated matters – fly from his mind. There is no need to think, only to act. He weights the weapon on his hand, swings it back and forth a couple times before moving towards the dummy he'd already been practising on. Without hesitating, he points the pointy concave side of it at the dummy.

And then, Cato twists his wrist, his muscles clench and he purses his lips together in concentration. He brings the machete slamming down on his target. The blade hisses as it slices through the air and lands neatly against the neck of the human sized toy, pushing through it like a hot knife through butter.

Within moments, the dummy's head falls flat on the floor with a dull thud. He glances down at it for a second before moving on to the next one, and that's when a distant screeching sound catches his attention and nearly causes him to miss his target. Nearly, but not quite and Cato's blade still thrusts straight into the dummy's chest so that when he pulls back, there's a relatively large hole on it and threads of fabric hang off its edge. Only then does he turn towards the source of the sound.

A large double-door – a good hundred feet away – slid open. The presence there is almost enough to make him seethe. He holds the machete even tighter in his grip, until his knuckles stand out starkly from the rest of his pale-ish skin.

Cato feels a nasty flavour flood his mouth and he considers ignoring it. It's easier said than done, especially when he can practically feel her gaze burn against the back of her head, but Cato does so for a while, maintaining a tense stance and working on cutting precisely through the dummy's vital points and watching as more and more white material erupts from its insides.

Clove doesn't call out for him. She zig-zags her way through a number of empty training stations, most of them standing in disarray scattered throughout the room and quickly finds her little hideout. Truthfully, it's nothing of the sort but there is something inside the part of her chest which is not sore and bruised that leaps at the idea of practising some knife-throwing.

Her movements are sluggish and her cheeks heat up when the knife she's trying to grab slips off the rack and clatters against the tiled floor bellow. Any other time and Clove would have sneered it off, but the sound echoes through the training centre and grows louder and although there is annoyance in them, she's perfectly aware of how Cato's eyes currently follow her every move. For a split second she stands still with a deer-in-the-headlights on her face. Her breath hitching and she does a piss poor job of steadying her body against the weapon rack before bending down to catch the fallen blade.

Dark, malicious amusement twists Cato's expression and glints in his eyes. She is alone this time.

This is not supposed to have happened. Clove exhales slowly, forcing the air off her lungs in an attempt at calming herself down. It doesn't help very much at all and she tries again, painstakingly working on but the results are very similar, her fingers tremble and although she ends up holding the knife's hilt, the grip on it is shaky and she can't explain it. Her usually firm, steady grasp and downright perfect grasp can barely hold down onto the blade.

She, freezes. Instead of crying out in outrage, she switches hands. Using her left hand feels different, it's not as flawlessly balanced and she has to aim twice to even feel that the direction and the depth of her movement are the correct ones.

When the knife lands off centre, not quite hitting the bullseye and its blade imbues itself a couple inches to the left where Cato's machete has struck the dummy, only inches away from his hand, his head twist upwards, both amused at the girl's failure and simply angry at her for daring to do it at all. "And the hell do you think you're doing?" These are the first words they have spoken to each other since the scene earlier and he doesn't want to acknowledge her entirely.

"This," but Clove stalks forward, her arm raises up in the air and although they are standing a good distance from one another, what she means is obvious. The long sleeve shirt she is wearing only reaches as far as the middle of her forearm and Clove's eyes dart to the thin but angry red scar which crosses down the side of her skin, she hisses. "Do you see this? Do you?"

Despite not having the clearest memory of what happened after being scooped up into the Hovercraft, Clove is bitterly sure of one thing, she is definitely not stupid and whatever was done to her arm, which now feels slow and useless, was not caused by the blond boy who now stands in front of her. This of course, doesn't stop her from snapping at him nor the fiery glint in her eyes.

"Yeah?" Cato queries, not quite letting go of the machete, its hilt is propped on his hip unnaturally, "am I supposed to know something about that?" Is he? Cato isn't too sure he understands. He sees the wound and almost at once knows it is too neat to have been one of his on. He's good, of course, but not as precise.

Clove had never considered death before, only success, she had never considered that they both would be coming off the games and definitely not that whatever she now feels towards him is mostly resent, for being unable of ending her life.

"No, you're supposed to be sorry for every shitty thing you've done. Or rather, that you haven't done." She presses on. It's entirely unexpected and Clove revels in her own fury. She takes a couple steps forward and once again invades the blond's personal space by pressing one elbow on the dummy beside him and leaning against it. They are both trained killers wielding razor sharp weapons and Clove knows she is far too close for safety, but who's to care for that? Certainly not her.

Clove doesn't blink when Cato reaches forward. Maybe she should since he misses her by inches, thrusting his sword so that it sinks inside the dummy's chest instead and, even as he lets go of its handle, turning to stare – actually stare, relatively expressionless, his deep blue eyes widening slightly – at her. "Piss off," he sneers. "Is that why you're here? Are you going to beg me to make it all better to you or whatever the fuck that is supposed to mean?"

"No, hell no. I don't want your sympathy." The expression on his face is deeply unsettling and Clove loathes to consider whatever Cato might be thinking at the moment. She glares at him. She knows that even mighty Cato is powerless to do anything in their current situation, so she plays that card, and her mouth twitches, nearly smug. "You wouldn't been able to do anything, anyway."

As if to further convey her point, Clove's pushes her wounded arm in between both of them, nearly resting it on the boy's chest. Her hand closes slowly and she glares down at it, incapable of making it move normally. It's a dangerous gesture combined with taunting words and she isn't too sure of his reaction, especially not when she can clearly see the way .

Cato breathes slowly. It's difficult to control himself and stop his body from moving on its own, but at this point, the cons far outweigh whatever might come off snapping at her. "Okay," he says and nods. It surprises them both and he pauses, "So I gotta pity you or something?" He ponders, and moves one hand to stroke his chin in mock thoughtfulness.

Clove practically snorts, and they share a brief strange moment together. Cato's head falls forward and he laughs, fully ignoring the way Clove's body has stiffened.

She's annoyed by his comeback and tries to bite back on her anger. How did he dare to keep on doing this kind of thing to her? "Did they actually rewire your brain or something, you're a fucking idiot."

This time it's too easy to let it just go and Cato doesn't hold back. His arm flies forward, biceps flexing and his fingers linger barely touching the skin of her throat. This reeks of what happened to the cornucopia and he really should have known better and should have stopped to consider his actions. As it is, his vision tints red and he practically snarls. The vaguely sound resembles the muttations yaps. "Say that again. Say that again and—"

As expected, Clove doesn't budge. It's either stubborn or simply foolish, the way she pushes back onto his hand. "And what? Are you going to, oh, are you going to kill me perhaps?"

There's an all knowing smirk hanging on her lips and Cato only thought is to close the distance between them and wipe it off. So he does. Before a moment has gone by, his hand pushes the last one and a half inch between them and his finger curl around her windpipe. He can practically feel her pulse under his fingertips and the intensity of it nearly throws him off. His actions mimick what happened atop the cornucopia and Cato realizes that he should probably know better than to lose it like this, but even that thought alone is not enough to stop him.

"Yeah," he grunts and moves forward.

Their faces are so close that he can feel Clove's shaky breath against his cheek and he hates the way her chest moves up and down against him. She doesn't struggle and although her eyes narrow, there's a steely glint to them that nearly taunts him on. Cato has no idea what the hell she's playing at but his blood rushes viciously against the back of his head and circles through his body, practically boiling in his veins. Some large part of him urges to tighten his hold and to smother her until there's no coming back, and he's about to give in to that when he realizes that perhaps, just perhaps, that might be her plan all along.

Fuck her.

Instead of giving onto what may or not have been what Clove had been pushing him to do, Cato stops. He practically freezes, forcing his a deep breath to escape from his lungs. His hold on her neck is firm but otherwise fairly inoffensive and it's only when he moves his free hand down around her waist and she still doesn't react that Cato pushes more harshly.

It doesn't take very long at all, only a long drawn albeit swift movement in which Clove's form practically flies over his shoulder, until he has her pinned down on the floor. Cato's hands clench into fists and he glares at the girl from high up above, pushing down the heel of his boot on her chest.

"You know what?" He growls and looks down at where the girl's chest bandages seem to have fallen askew and stick off from the edge of her sweater, revealing a large portion of her skin. There's a stick blood smeared on her training clothes as well as pooling on the floor beneath him. Cato's almost sorry he has apparently re-opened her wounds. But she's not trying to scramble away from him. Of course, she probably knows it is impossible to do, from the way Cato's feet is pushing onto her ribcage, but it's with disappointment that Cato realizes he had expected more."I should have won. Alone. You're fucking weak, pathetic, I don't even know."

"Yeah well," Clove's head tilts and her cheek is flat against the floor. Her eyes fly everywhere but refuse to rest on the boy's form on top of her. At least he hasn't had the idea of reaching for his machete and decided to have some fun cutting even more words onto her skin. "I wasn't the one one who said I couldn't," she coughs and presses one palm against her forehead, light-headed from the pressure. "...that I couldn't kill you. I wasn't."

Even now, there's an edge, some sort of jagged edge to her tone and

"I said I couldn't kill you but I never said I couldn't do this," blatantly, he moves draws his leg back and before she has had time to move away, Cato pushes it forward again, gaining enough momentum to land a rough kick to the girl's ribs. His boot digs into her side and she slides a good few inches on the floor.

This is not what he'd originally intended to do and as Clove's breath leaves her lungs, sounding all the more pained, Cato snaps back to reality. At least, that's his defence for acting so insanely reckless. He has no idea of what kind of damage he might have caused on her nor whatever the consequences of his actions will be and it's easy to excuse them due to a random moment of insanity. Or due to having been provoked. Both are valid explanations, he thinks and casts the half-assed fears away.

"Fuck—asshole, I get... it," the muttering snaps Cato off his own thoughts, sharply gazing down at her with deep creases where moment before his forehead had been smooth. She heaves on the floor and curls onto a fetal position. Clove huffs and bites on the corner of her mouth to avoid crying out or sobbing from the pain which cradles her whole body. She's not going to give him the pleasure of hearing her any longer.

Clove's body convulses and it takes her a good couple minutes until she's able to crawl away from him and sit back, leaning onto the wall. There's blood streaked on the floor behind her and although Cato watches her every move intently, he doesn't move to reach out for her, to either make things worse or just end it all for her.

Instead, he decides to ignore what has happened and is about to turn away when a movement catches his attention. It's sluggish but he can see from the corners of his vision when the door opens and a couple forms slide inside.

Although the Clove's eyes are now slightly glossed over, and have turned a lighter shade of brown, she seems to be able to see and tilts her head towards the group of... people who are making their way over. Avoxes. They're completely silent, and even their footsteps appear to be soundless as they stride towards the pair.

Cato's heart practically leaps in his chest, this is a strange scene and he's caught between running away and standing his ground. "Fuck," and he shoots her a glance before moving his head to stare the the newcomers. There must be at least five or six of them, though it's difficult to tell from how distant they are. They stare onward at the pair and flow near effortlessly through the floor. Cato can see that some of them appear to carry medical instruments, before he tears his face from the scene.

Even breathing hurts but Clove's presses one palm down on the floor and pushes herself up. Once again, within days of having this last happen to her, she's ushered away by strange hands and there's all sort of instruments being slid around and into her body. It would have been comforting if her last experiences with doctors hadn't been so horrible. This time, however, she doesn't resist it, she can't. There's no sudden adrenaline kick lending her the strength to push them all away and stalk off by herself. Clove hadn't noticed it before but she's oh-so tired.

It's horrible. She's free to blame him, to shriek and flail at how this is all his fault. Cato nearly expects that to happen. He doesn't watch as much as he listens as she's helped off the room, completely silent, or at least, as close to that as humanely possible. There's a few gasps and hisses, but he ignores them. A cold bead of sweat runs down his neck.

Only when the door closes again does Cato allow himself to exhale out the breath he'd been holding. His whole body has tensed painfully and he can feel it as his heart pounds rhythmically inside his chest. There's a sort of jittery, unstable energy coursing through his muscles and Cato has no idea what to do with it. So he shifts on his feet and once again makes his way to the dummy he'd been beating down.

Fuck. Things appear to much more complicated than ever before and although Cato isn't quite capable of admitting it, he is completely aware of how this is his fault. He brings down his machete on the dummy's surface but doesn't cut right through it. It hesitates and the head of it doesn't fall off as much as it hangs down by a strip of material.

Cato is not consciously guilty. There's no part of his mind who blames himself for having hurt, or broken Clove further. On the other hand, there is this strangely remarkable pain which catches his breath and he has no idea how to make it go away. It causes his muscles to flex and the grip on the machete nearly falters.

He has no idea how to overcome it. So doing the one thing he's best at, the one thing he knows best, Cato pushes forward, practically losing himself on trying to demolish his target. He works until his whole shirt is sticky and damp from the sweat, and there's nothing left of the dummy besides a metal frame and a large amount of lose threads and pieces of fabric on the floor under where it stands.

It's not enough and he spins around and goes for a second one, unstoppable.

It's much later, hours after the fight and Cato is still in the training room. He reels and glances at the line of destroyed dummies beside him, most of them torn to shreds and practically unrecognisable. There's none left standing on the room, and the fact that he shouldn't be doing this doesn't cross his mind. No one has tried to stop him so he finds no reason to ponder on that. It's easier to not think but whole body throbs from the exhaustion and he's forced to take a rest.

He watches lights flick off. One by one they fade away until there's nothing but a cold blue hue shining down from above. It's time. Turning his back to the scene, Cato eyes sweep across the room, lingering for a couple moments on a bloody spot on the floor before finally stalking off.

No one has entered the room since their stand-off and he can practically feel her chest beneath his feet. Awful doesn't start to cover it and Cato has absolutely no idea of how to deal with it. So probably for the first time in his life, he flees.


	8. Chapter 8

It was only after arriving at her room, having spent a couple of hours at the medical bay being fussed over by nameless, faceless doctors, that Clove finally lost it. Their intentions were only _mostly_ good and after the second time someone mentioned her weak arm, she realized that they probably knew very little, if anything at all of what had happened to her earlier in the hovercraft. Of what she'd been subject to by the 'birds'. Of course, the entirety of them still pissed the hell out of her. Like a wild animal, she growled and snapped. If it weren't for the sharp ache which still resonated from the side of her chest, she might have even tried to attack them.

She didn't.

Her bruises were looked at. Clove was sure that the bleeding wound on her side had been re-stitched. However, nothing beyond those two procedures were offered to her. Not that she would have accepted the extra-help. She sneered at the coddling, while still being secretly glad for not having to deal with having being drugged and knocked unconscious, again. Although the slow and steady pain which flared up with every breath nearly drove her to insanity right there and then, the idea of having been helpless to fight it was almost too much to bear.

Clutching the back of her neck, she broke into a fit of panic-induced hyperventilating.

Clove knew that the people around her had noticed her erratic behaviour; the way her hands dropped from around her own throat and curled into tight fists, the crease of her forehead and how her eyes narrowed to slits. Still, it was with surprise as well as a touch of bitterness that she got released from their care and escorted back to Two's quarters.

This time instead of the group of Avoxes, a pair of peacekeepers walked slowly behind her. They acted obnoxiously and she practically seethed at them. Of course, she should have been aware of it already, the way they are obviously louder and far less contained, but the two men drag their boots on the floor and all she can think of is Cato and the way he made quick work of her and how he could have easily cracked her ribs or kill her.

Cato. A cold lump run down her throat, reminiscing of the tubes she's that had been forced past her nostrils earlier. Clove felt like she might have to puke but that is not what caused her to pause and heave near violently. Her chest moved up and down several times and she groaned. She could practically the pressure of Cato's feet on her chest and it caused her eyes to slide shut, not out of fear. Not yet.

Before she has the time to collect her thoughts, Clove realizes that fingers brushed one of her shoulders and although the touch was not painful, she still reacted negatively to it, flinging herself off and wincing as the side of her body was forced against the cold, far too cold wall. She can almost hear the sickening crunch of bone snapping under the weight but the expected pain never comes and Clove realizes she must've been imagining it. She must have gone crazy and that was the least of her worries.

"Get off me." Her head snapped up and her eyes narrowed cooly at the peacekeeper which'd reached for her and she growled, baring her teeth at him.

There's an 'or else' expression on her face which she didn't bother to add out loud. It doesn't matter, since the guy's arm retreats back as soon as she'd moved. Instead, Clove forces, once again, her throat to work and she exhales slowly, feeling the air flowing past his lips. Calming herself down is, at that point, easier said than done and it takes a good few seconds before she manages to stop panting.

Despite not looking at them, Clove was perfectly aware of how the peacekeepers's eyes were, more likely than not, trained on her every move. She had never considered herself to be particularly paranoid but right then Clove felt like a trapped animal whose only option was backing down. She fidgeted, not nervous as much as she was She urged to stride past them and well as to ignore the conversation which sparked up around her.

"She's a feisty one." The same peacekeeper which had tried to help her joked aloud but did otherwise move away, taking a couple steps backwards so that there was a careful distance between the pair of them and the girl. He was tall, although not as big or wide as Cato had been and—she froze and ground her teeth together.

No. No. She couldn't start to think about HIM now, not again. She shook his head and if they hadn't thought her insane already, they most likely did now. Clove wasn't sure if the fact that she didn't care one way or another was something she ought to prize or hold against herself. Ultimately, it wasn't like either of these emotions mattered, since they would discard her at the room and would never be seen again. However the way they talked about her as if she weren't there was still difficult to withstand.

"Come on... this one is obviously nuts," the second guy, far taller but thin as a string spoke up as if it really didn't matter whether Clove could hear him. His voice sounded strange to her ears and she urged nothing more than to slam a knife down his pale long throat. What was it with people insisting she was insane?

"Don't think nuts starts to cover it, boss. Did ya see the way she flinched?" Consciously or not, the man moved his hand and shielded his eyes from Clove's vision, moving the cap straighter on his head.

It probably did not matter in the least and this was probably a courtesy that had been offered to her. If Clove had known it sooner, she would have refused it. For all she knew, they believed she would be of any danger to herself, or something. It was difficult to think already, even more when the taunting words reached her ears.

"Hell yeah. Doesn't matter. We have more than enough to do, ignore her." The tips of his fingers caressed the bat that he wore by his waist and Clove just about toyed with the idea of darting forward and taking it. She shot it down for its recklessness. She was not Cato, she didn't have his guts and she was capable of seeing how it would never work.

Cato...fucking hell.

Pushing these thoughts aside, Clove fought to focus on the corridor. On the floor she was standing on. On anything but on either the two asshole excuses for peacekeepers, or Cato, or that he practically beat the crap out of her earlier... definitely not that. Above her, the lights appeared to flicker and she forced one of her elbows ont he wall, pushing her stiff body forward. She hissed at the ache which shot up her spine and seemingly lodged inside her chest.

Everything hurt and Clove glared down at the floor for long enough to make sure she wasn't going to stumble down. In retrospect, she could now see how silly it had been to stop at all and it only made resuming the walk more difficult. She didn't, however, hesitate and as soon as possible, she stepped forward, somewhat glad that inhaling didn't cause her lungs to burn as much as minutes earlier. At times, she found herself appreciating small things that were not long and sharp, like knifes. This was one of these.

Clove didn't miss the apprehensive looks they shot at the back of her head nor the continuously whispered grumbles as she closed the distance between them and quickly pushed ahead... Although some part of her urged to spin on her feet and seethe venomously on their faces, Clove resisted. With futile stubbornness she darted forward and rose her head at the sight of a door ahead.

Before the peacekeepers could say anything at all, she raised one hand up in the air. "You jerks can go now," she ordered briskly. Instantly, her palm reached forward and she pushed down on the doorknob all but ignoring the men where they stood somewhere behind her.

"Oh hey, she talks," the lankier, definitely sleazier one spoke up, "Surprising." His mouth twisted in a scoff and Clove tilted her head, and glanced over her shoulder to shoot him a disgusted look. She briefly considered the distance between them and tugged more forcefully at the metal beneath her fingers. As had happened before, her hand refused to cooperate and she rapidly grew more and more frustrated with its uselessness.

"In a hurry? Do us a favour, dear, and you can take even longer. If you want. But we're not going anywhere."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Rob," the other grumbled, ""leave her alone and let's leave before..." he didn't end that sentence but Clove heard, more than watched as he took a step away. The heavy sound of the boots (sound) on the floor alone was enough to send a shiver running down her spine.

Before the other – whose name was apparently Rob - could follow. Before anything else could be said or done, the door flew open against her palm and banged loudly on the wall beside where she stood. It was with intense satisfaction that she saw the guy jump at how suddenly and how loudly the sound echoed through the corridor and rung harshly on both their ears.

Without skipping a beat, Clove slid inside and pushed the door shut behind her back. There was no key and she couldn't lock it. Instead, she pressed her back against it and momentarily moved a hand down to cover her eyes.

Entering the room flooded her every pore with relief. It came crashing down on her and took all her breath away, until she was left there, completely breathless, panting roughly and sliding down until she fell on her knees by the door. Maybe she should have considered the area to be the source of all her nightmares but as her head lolled forward, only the

Only after a couple minutes did she notice him. Her face scanned the room and Clove recognized him as the one Avox who had stood, silently watching over her ever since her arrival back on the building. Despite everything he had (or not) done for her, the presence still cause her to lose her mind all over again.

"Get out!" She shrieked and despite not moving from here place sitting down, Clove's arms moved in what was intended a stabbing motion towards him before crossing around her chest. She practically shouted atop her lungs. "Get the hell out! Now!"

Maybe the peacekeepers would hear, maybe they would try to barge in.

The Avox, whose name she had never bothered to learn – though there was probably a tag somewhere – didn't move, at first. He remained perfectly still and the impassiveness further fuelled Clove's ire. She snapped, all brimstone and fire, eyes narrowing until there was nothing but searing hatred burning within them. They weren't exactly directed at the Avox, of course, but that he had nothing to do with the situation as a whole didn't quite cross her mind.

"Don't make me repeat myself," her tone was low, hot and angry. It matched her expression. She met the Avox's eyes and what she saw there, a spark of defiance, nearly threw her own anger off the loop.

Whatever it was, she knew it wasn't supposed to be there at all and although it lasted only a moment, it still tugged a surprised, outraged reaction out of her. Only when it was finally replaced by the same complacency of before, did Clove growl. The man's face dropped lower and a wicked grin tugged at the corners of her lips. It wasn't victory, it wasn't anything at all, but it was good enough for her moment of mindlessness.

Clove could have questioned his future, the fact that obviously, this was not the broken down servant that the Capitol had wanted for. But she didn't care. Pushing herself up, she continued to glare at him and slowly made it towards the middle of the room, leaving the way to the door open. She motioned towards it with a tilt of her head.

"Go on, fuck the hell off!" Clove swore she could see the Avox's eyebrow rise in his head and that his otherwise perfectly still features had creased slightly and it only pissed her off further. How dare he? How the fuck dare he? She stomped forward and watched him leave.

For the first time, she actually took in the silent man's features, snorting. In spite of having seen him many times, Clove had never bothered to pay him much, if any attention. Now, as he walked through the doorway, she finally locked her gaze on his. Her eyes narrowed. He was tall with nearly androgynous features, which vaguely pushed a half forgotten, hazy memory on the top of her mind. It was not—she gasped, jaw hanging slack open.

Clove's heart appeared to catch in her throat. She could feel it thud wildly on her windpipe. Her stomach lurched and for the moment it took her to refocus her gaze on the retreating form, she thought she might have to throw up, from the sudden spell of nausea which hit her like a freight train.

No. Although she could taste acid bile swirling on the tip of her tongue, as her eyes darted across the bald back of the Avox's head, she realized that no, he didn't have nasty, inky feathers sprouting in every direction. That he wasn't the very same madmen which had made sure her hand was now practically unusable.

The realization both fuelled as well as put a damper on her mood, on her madness. It was surprising to acknowledge it, but Clove didn't want him punished by the Capitol. Hell no. She seethed, violently slamming her weak palm down on the wall beside her head. A faint ache rippled up her arm at the same time the door fell shut again. She ignored it.

No one had come for her. "Fuck," she breathed. Something hot, wet and mostly unknown sprouted from the corners of her eyes. Before she realized what had happened, a pair of furious tears had ran down her cheeks and she swayed on her feet.

When Clove collapsed down on the bed its mattress sunk under her weight and the metal support bellow screeched. She was completely alone and whatever surveillance devices the Capitol might have installed in the room were not of her concern. They had already done this to her, they had made sure her everything had shattered. What else did they want?

She didn't know, and she didn't have to press any further. The tears kept on flowing, slowly growing from a couple of droplets rolling down her face to a full-blown stream. It was maddening, more so now that she couldn't hold it back. Her movements grew more and more aimless. And at some point, Clove could not do anything but draw her knees against her chest as the sobs racked through her frame, shaking her asunder.

Maybe if Cato were there he would've made it better. He would've pushed his fingers around her throat and squeezed until it all went away. As idiotic as the idea was, she still wished for it.


End file.
